Class 


Book 


V 


V* 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 


Thex  the  Epileptic  Octogenarian  Let  Me  Go  and  the  Pauper  Line 
Went  in  Before  the  Parish  Clerk  for  the  Charity  Shilling 


THROUGH  THE 
MILL 

TEE  LIFE  OF  A  MILL-BOY 

BY 

AL    PRIDDY 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
WLADYSLAW   T.  BENDA 


THE    PILGRIM    PRESS 

BOSTON     NEW  YORK     CHICAGO 


Copyright,  1911 
By  Luther  H.  Caet 


THE' PLIMPTON- PRESS 

[  W  D'  O] 
NORWOOD  •  MASS  •  U  •  S  •  A 


SftU2 


YBL 


affectionate!?  De&tcateU 

TO 

MY  WIFE 

'  Still,  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  go  onward, 

Grinding  life  down  from  its  mark ; 
And  the  children's  souls,  which  God  is  calling  sunward, 

Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark." 

—  E.  B.  Bbowning 


Note 

How  many  thousand  pens  are  busy  reporting 
and  recording  mill  life!  It  is  a  splendid  com- 
mentary on  the  fineness  of  our  social  conscience 
that  there  are  so  many  champions  on  behalf  of 
overworked  boys  and  girls. 

Coming  now,  to  take  its  place  among  the 
multitudes  of  investigations  and  faithful  records 
of  factory  life,  is  this  frank,  absolutely  real  and 
dispassionate  Autobiography — written  by  a  mill 
boy  who  has  lived  the  experiences  of  this  book. 
So  far  as  can  be  found  this  is  the  first  time  that 
such  an  Autobiography  has  been  printed  in 
English. 

Since  its  appearance  in  the  Outlook,  the 
Autobiography  has  been  entirely  rewritten  and 
new  chapters  have  been  added,  so  that  the 
book  will  be  practically  new  to  any  one  who 
chanced  to  read  the  Outlook  chapters. 


[vii] 


Contents 


Chapter  I  Page 

A  Mixture  of  Fish,  Wrangles,  and  Beer 3 

Chapter  EC 

Dripping    Potatoes,    Diplomatic    Charity,  and    Christmas 

Carols 27 

Chapter  III 

My  Schoolmates  Teach  Me  American 47 

Chapter  IV 

7  Pick  Up  a  Handful  of  America,  make  an  American  Cap, 
whip  a  Yankee,  and  march  Home  Whistling  "  Yankee 
Doodle" 59 

Chapter  V 

I  cannot  become  a  President,  but  I  can  go  to  the  Dumping 

Grounds 67 

Chapter  VI 

The    Luxurious    Possibilities  of   the   Dollar-Down-Dollar- 

a-Week-System  of  Housekeeping         81 

Chapter  VII 

/  am  given  the  Privilege  of  Choosing  my  own  Birthday    .     .       93 

Chapter  VIII 

The  Keepers  of  the  Mill  Gate,  Snuff  Rubbing,  and  the  Play 

of  a  Brute 113 

Chapter  IX 

A  Factory  Fashion-plate,  the  Magic  Shirt  Bosom,  and  Wise 

Counsel  on  How  To  Grow  Straight 129 

[ix] 


CONTENTS 

Chapter  X  Page 

"Peter  One-Leg-and-a-Half"  and  His  Optimistic  Whistlers      141 

Chapter  XI 

Esthetic    Adventures    made    possible    by    a    Fifteen-Dollar 

Piano 149 

Chapter  XII 

Machinery  and  Manhood 165 

Chapter  XIII 

How  my  Aunt  and  Uncle  Entertained  the  Spinners  .      .      .     179 

Chapter  XIV 

Bad  Deeds  in  a  Union  for  Good  Works 191 

Chapter  XV 

The  College  Graduate  Scrubber  Refreshes  my  Ambitions        .     205 

Chapter  XVI 

How  the  Superintendent  Shut  Us  Out  from  Eden       .      .      .     223 

Chapter  XVII 

7  Founded  the  Priddy  Historical  Club 233 

Chapter  XVIII 

A  Venture  into  Art 243 

Chapter  XIX 

A  Reduction  in  Wages,  Cart-tail  Oratory,  a  Big  Strike,  and 

the  Joys  and  Sufferings  Thereof 255 

Chapter  XX 

My  Steam  Cooker  goes  wrong,  I  go  to  Newport  for  Enlist- 
ment on  a  Training-ship 265 

Chapter  XXI 

The  Ichabod  of  Mule-rooms,  some  Drastic  Musing,  College 
at  my  Finger-tips,  the  Mill  People  wait  to  let  me  pass 
and  I  Am  Waved  into  the  World  by  a  Blind 
Woman 273 

[x] 


Illustrations 


Then  the  Epileptic  Octogenarian  Let  Me 
Go  and  the  Pauper  Line  Went  in  Be- 
fore the  Parish  Clerk  for  the  Charity 
Shilling Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

When  the  Train  Started  for  Liverpool,  I 
Counted  my  Pennies  while  my  Aunt  Wept 
Bitterly 52 

Pat  and  Tim  Led  Me  to  the  Charles  Street 
Dumping  Ground  —  Which  Was  the  Neigh- 
borhood Gehenna 78 

I   Was   Given    a    Broom,  and    then   I    Found 

Myself  alone    with    Mary 122 

"  Peter-one-leg- and- a-half"  Led  Us  at  Night 
over  High  Board  Fences 146 

The  Spinners  Would  not  Stop  their   Mules 

while  I  Cleaned  the  Wheels      .      .       .      .      170 

He  Plucked  the  Venerable  Beard  of  a 
Somnolent  Hebrew 196 

The  Gang  Began  to  Hold  "Surprise  Parties" 

for  the  Girls  in  the  Mill 246 


[xi] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 


Chapter  I.     A  Mixture  of  Fish, 
Wrangles,   and  Beer 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 


Chapter  L    A  Mixture  of  Fish, 
JVrangles,  and  Beer 

MY  tenth  birthday  was  celebrated  in 
northern  England,  almost  within 
hailing  distance  of  the  Irish  Sea. 
Chaddy  Ash  worth,  the  greengro- 
cer's son,  helped  me  eat  the  birth- 
day cake,  with  the  ten  burnt  currants  on  its 
buttered  top. 

As  old  Bill  Scroggs  was  wont  to  boast:  "Had- 
field  was  in  the  right  proper  place,  it  being  in 
the  best  shire  in  the  Kingdom.  Darby-shir 
(Derbyshire)  is  where  Mr.  George  Eliot  (only 
he  said  'Helliot')  got  his  'Adam  Bede'  frum 
(only  he  said  'Hadam  Bede').  Darby-shir  is 
where  Hum-fry  Ward  (he  pronounced  it '  Waard ') 
placed  the  'Histry  o'  Davvid  Grieve.'  If  that 
don't  top  off  the  glory,  it  is  Darby-shir  that 
has  geen  to  the  waarld  Florence  Nightengale, 
Hangel  of  the  British  Harmy!" 

[5] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

It  was  in  the  first  of  those  ten  years  that  I  had 
been  bereft  of  my  parents  and  had  gone  to  live 
with  my  Aunt  Millie  and  Uncle  Stanwood.  In 
commenting  on  her  benevolence  in  taking  me, 
Aunt  Millie  often  said:  "If  it  had  been  that 
none  of  my  own  four  babbies  had  died,  I  don't 
know  what  you'd  have  done,  I'm  sure.  I 
shouldn't  have  taken  you!" 

But  there  I  was,  a  very  lucky  lad  indeed  to 
have  a  home  with  a  middle-class  tradesman  in 
Station  Road.  My  uncle's  property  consisted 
of  a  corner  shop  and  an  adjoining  house.  The 
door  of  the  shop  looked  out  upon  the  main, 
cobbled  thoroughfare,  and  upon  an  alleyway 
which  ended  at  a  coffin-maker's,  where  all 
the  workhouse  coffins  were  manufactured.  We 
passed  back  and  forth  to  the  shop  through  a 
low,  mysterious  door,  which  in  "The  Mysteries 
of  Udolpho"  would  have  figured  in  exciting, 
ghostly  episodes,  so  was  it  hidden  in  darkness 
in  the  unlighted  storeroom  from  which  it  led. 
As  for  the  shop  itself,  it  was  a  great  fish  odor, 
for  its  counters,  shelves  and  floor  had  held 
nothing  else  for  years  and  years.  The  poultry 
came  only  in  odd  seasons,  but  fish  was  always 
with  us:  blue  mussels,  scalloped  cockles,  crabs 
and  lobsters,  mossy  mussels,  for  shell  fish:  sole, 
conger  eels,  haddock,  cod,  mackerel,  herring, 
shrimps,  flake  and  many  other  sorts  for  the  regu- 

[61 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

lar  fish.  Then,  of  course,  there  were  the  smoked 
kind :  bloaters,  red  herrings,  kippered  herring,  fin- 
nan haddock,  and  salt  cod.  In  the  summer  the 
fish  were  always  displayed  outside,  with  ice  and 
watercresses  for  their  beds,  on  white  platters. 
Then,  too,  there  were  platters  of  opened  mussels 
a  little  brighter  than  gold  in  settings  of  blue. 
My  uncle  always  allowed  me  to  cut  open  the 
cod  so  that  I  might  have  the  fishhooks  they 
had  swallowed.  There  was  not  a  shopkeeper  in 
the  row  that  had  half  as  much  artistic  window 
display  skill  as  had  Uncle  Stanwood.  He  was 
always  picking  up  "pointers"  in  Manchester. 
When  the  giant  ray  came  in  from  Grimsby,  the 
weavers  were  always  treated  to  a  window  display 
twice  more  exciting  than  the  butcher  offered 
every  Christmas,  when  he  sat  pink  pigs  in  chairs 
in  natural  human  postures,  their  bodies  glori- 
fied in  Christmas  tinsel.  Uncle  Stanwood  took 
those  giant  fish,  monstrous,  slimy,  ugly  night- 
mares, sat  them  in  low  chairs,  with  tail-flappers 
curled  comically  forward,  with  iron  rimmed 
spectacles  on  their  snouts,  a  dented  derby  aslant 
beady  eyes,  and  a  warden's  clay  pipe  prodded 
into  a  silly  mouth  —  all  so  clownish  a  sight  that 
the  weavers  and  spinners  never  tired  of  laughing 
over  it. 

But   while   Uncle   Stanwood    was    ambitious 
enough  in  his  business,  seeking  "independence," 

[7] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

which,  to  the  British  tradesman,  represents 
freedom  from  work  and  therefore,  "  gentlemanli- 
ness,"  though  he  knew  the  fine  art  of  window- 
display  and  was  a  good  pedler,  he  was  never 
intended  by  nature  to  impress  the  world  with 
the  fact  of  his  presence  in  it.  He  lacked  will 
power.  He  was  not  self-assertive  enough  at 
critical  times.  The  only  time  when  he  did  call 
attention  to  himself  was  when  he  took  "Bob," 
our  one-eyed  horse,  and  peddled  fish,  humor- 
ously shouting  through  the  streets,  "Mussels 
and  cockles  alive!  Buy  'em  alive!  Kill  'em  as 
you  want  'em!"  At  all  other  times,  the  "Blue 
Sign"  and  the  "Linnet's  Nest,"  our  public 
houses,  could  lure  him  away  from  his  business 
very  readily.  Uncle  Stanwood  had  a  conspic- 
uous artistic  nature  and  training,  and  it  was  in 
these  public  houses  where  he  could  display  his 
talents  to  the  best  advantage.  He  could  play 
a  flute  and  also  "vamp"  on  a  piano.  True  his 
flute-playing  was  limited  to  "Easy  Pieces,"  and 
his  piano  "vamping"  was  little  more  than 
playing  variations  on  sets  of  chords  in  all  the 
various  keys,  with  every  now  and  then  a  one- 
finger-air,  set  off  very  well  by  a  vamp,  but  he 
could  get  a  perfunctory  morsel  of  applause  for 
whatever  skill  he  had,  and  very  few  of  the 
solo  singers  in  concerts  attempted  to  entertain 
in  those  public  houses  without  having  "Stan" 

[8] 


THROUGH   The   mill 

Brindin  "tickle  it  up"  for  them.  In  regard  to 
his  piano-playing,  uncle  had  unbounded  con- 
fidence. He  could  give  the  accompaniment  to 
the  newest  ballad  without  much  difficulty.  The 
singer  would  stand  up  before  the  piano  and  say, 
"Stan,  hast'  'eard  that  new  piece,  just  out  in 
t'  music  'alls,  'The  Rattling  Seaman?'" 

"No,"  uncle  would  say,  "but  I  know  I  can 
'vamp'  it  for  thee,  Jud.  Hum  it  o'er  a  bar 
or  two.  What  key  is't  in?"  "I  don't  know 
key,'"  would  respond  the  singer,  "but  it  goes  like 
this,"  and  there  would  ensue  a  humming  during 
which  uncle  would  desperately  finger  his  set  of 
chords,  cocking  his  ear  to  match  the  piano  with 
the  singer's  notes,  and  the  loud  crash  of  a  finger- 
f  ul  of  notes  would  suddenly  indicate  that  connec- 
tions had  been  made.  Then,  in  triumph,  uncle 
would  say,  "Let  me  play  the  Introduction, 
Jud!"  and  with  remarkable  facility  he  would 
stir  the  new  air  into  the  complex  variations  of 
his  chords;  he  would  "vamp"  up  and  down, 
up  and  down,  while  the  singer  cleared  his  throat, 
smiled  on  the  audience,  and  arranged  his  tie. 
Then  pianist  and  singer,  as  much  together  as 
if  they  had  been  practising  for  two  nights,  would 
go  together  through  a  harmonious  recital  of  how: 

"  The  Rattling  Seaman  s  jolly  as  a  friar, 
As  jolly  as  a  friar  is  he,  he,  he." 

[9] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

After  the  song,  and  the  encore  that  was  sure  to 
follow,  were  done,  uncle  always  had  to  share 
the  singer's  triumph  in  the  shape  of  noggins  of 
punch,  and  mugs  of  porter,  into  which  a  red  hot 
poker  from  the  coals  had  been  stirred,  and 
seasoned  with  pepper  and  salt.  This  would  be 
repeated  so  many  times  in  an  evening  that 
uncle  soon  became  unfit  for  either  piano  or 
flute-playing,  and  I  generally  had  to  go  for  the 
flute  the  next  morning  before  I  went  to  school. 
Uncle  Stanwood  had  a  golden  age  to  which  he 
often  referred.  In  the  first  place,  as  a  young 
bachelor  he  had  traveled  like  a  gentleman. 
His  tour  had  included  Ireland,  France,  and  the 
Isle  of  Man.  This  was  before  he  had  learned 
to  play  a  flute  and  piano  and  when  public  houses 
were  religiously  abhorred.  He  was  always  re- 
peating an  experience  that  befell  him  in  Ireland. 
I  can  record  it  verbatim.  "I  was  walking  along 
through  a  little  hamlet  when  night  came  on. 
I  saw  one  of  them  sod  houses,  and  I  knocked  on 
the  door.  A  blinking  Irish  woman  asked  me 
what  I  wanted.  I  told  her,  'a  night's  lodging.' 
She  pointed  to  a  far  corner  in  the  sod  house 
where  a  pig  and  some  hens  lay,  and  said  to  me, 
'Ye  can  dossy  down  in  the  corner  wid  th'  rist 
of  the  fam'ly ! "  In  its  time  there  was  no  more 
vivid  story  that  caught  my  imagination  than  that 
— pig,  hens,  and  blinking  Irish  woman.     About 

[10] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

his  Isle  of  Man  experiences,  uncle  was  always 
eloquent.  Besides  all  else  he  had  a  ditty  about 
it,  to  the  accompaniment  of  which  he  often 
dandled  me  on  his  knee. 

"Aye,  oh,  aye!  Lissen  till  I  tell  you 

Who  I  am,  am,  am. 
Tm  a  rovin  little  darkey 

All  the  way  from  Isle  of  Man. 
I'm  as  free  as  anybody, 

And  they  call  me  little  Sam! " 

Previous  to  his  marriage,  also,  he  had  been  the 
teacher  of  a  very  large  young  men's  class  in  one 
of  the  churches.  That  was  his  proudest  boast, 
because,  as  explained  to  me  over  and  over 
again  in  after  years,  "It  was  that  work  as  a 
teacher  that  made  me  read  a  lot  of  mighty  fine 
books.  I  had  to  prepare  myself  thoroughly,  for 
those  young  fellows  were  reading  philosophy, 
religion,  and  the  finest  fiction.  I  had  to  keep 
ahead  of  them  in  some  way.  It  is  to  that  work 
that  I  owe  what  little  learnin'  I've  got." 

The  inclinations  toward  the  finer,  sweeter 
things  of  life  were  wrapped  up  in  uncle's  char- 
acter, but  his  will  was  not  strong  enough  to 
keep  him  away  from  the  public  house. 

"That's  my  downfall,"  he  said.  "Oh,  if  I'd 
not  learned  to  play  the  flute  and  the  piano!" 
His   art  was   his   undoing;    but   never  did  his 

mi 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

undoing  smother  his  golden  age.  When  almost 
incoherently  drunk  it  was  his  habit  to  whimper, 
"I  was  better  once  —  I  was.  I  taught  a  young 
men's  class.     Look  at  me  now!" 

It  always  seemed  to  me  that  Aunt  Millie  was 
overstocked  with  the  things  that  uncle  lacked 
—  will-power,  assertiveness,  and  electric  temper. 
She  was  positively  positive  in  every  part  of  her 
nature.  She  was  positive  that  "Rule  Britannia " 
should  come  next  after  "Nearer,  my  God,  to 
Thee!"  She  was  likewise  positive  as  to  the 
validity  of  her  own  ideas.  Her  mind,  once  made 
up  —  it  did  not  take  very  long  for  that  —  was 
inflexible.  The  English  landed  nobility  never 
had  a  more  worshipful  worshiper  than  my 
aunt.  She  was  positive  that  it  was  one  of  our 
chief  duties  to  "know  our  place,"  and  "not  try 
to  be  gentlemen  and  ladies  when  we  don't  have 
the  right  to  be  such."  "It's  no  use  passing 
yourself  off  as  middle-classers  if  you  arn't  mid- 
dle classers  and  why  should,  on  the  other  hand, 
a  middle-classer  try  to  pose  as  a  gentleman?" 

She  was  always  reciting  to  me,  as  one  of  the 
pleasant  memories  she  had  carried  off  from  her 
girlhood,  how,  when  the  carriage  of  a  squire 
had  swept  by,  she  had  courtesied  graciously  and 
humbly. 

"Did  they  bow  to  you,  Aunt?"  I  asked. 

"Bow  to  me!"  she  exclaimed,  contemptuously, 
[12] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

"who  ever  heard  the  likes!"  Once  she  had  seen 
a  real  lord!  Her  father  had  been  one  of  those 
hamlet  geniuses  whose  dreams  and  plans  never 
get  much  broader  recognition  than  his  own 
fireside.  He  had  built  church  organs,  played 
on  them,  and  had  composed  music.  He  had 
also  made  the  family  blacking,  soap,  ink,  and 
many  other  useful  necessities.  He  had  also 
manufactured  the  pills  with  which  the  family 
cured  its  ills,  pills  of  the  old-fashioned  sort  of 
soap,  sugar,  and  herb,  compounded.  Once  he 
had  composed  some  music  for  his  church's  share 
in  a  national  fete,  on  the  merit  of  which,  my 
aunt  used  to  fondly  tell  me,  real  gentlemen  would 
drive  up  to  the  door  merely  to  have  a  glimpse  at 
the  old  gentleman,  much  as  if  he  had  been 
Mendelssohn  in  retirement. 

Aunt  sent  me  daily  to  one  or  other  of  the 
public  houses  for  either  a  jug  of  ale  or  a  pint  of 
porter.  Sometimes  she  took  more  than  a  per- 
functory jug,  and  then  she  was  on  edge  for  a  row 
instantly.  When  intoxicated  she  fairly  quivered 
with  jealousy,  suspicion,  and  violent  passion. 
One  question  touching  on  a  delicate  matter, 
one  word  injudiciously  placed,  one  look  of  the 
eye,  and  she  became  a  volcano  of  belligerent 
rage,  belching  profanity,  and  letting  crockery  or 
pieces  of  coal  express  what  even  her  overloaded 
adjectives  could  not  adequately  convey.     And 

[13] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

when  the  storm  had  spent  itself,  she  always  re- 
lapsed into  an  excessive  hysteria,  which  included 
thrillingly  mad  shrieks,  which  my  poor,  inoffen- 
sive uncle  tried  to  drown  in  showers  of  cold 
water. 

"I've  brought  it  all  on  myself,"  explained 
Uncle  Stanwood,  in  explanation  of  his  wife's 
intoxication.  He  then  went  on  to  explain  how, 
when  he  had  been  courting,  he  had  taken  his 
fiancee  on  a  holiday  trip  to  the  seaside.  While 
there,  in  a  beer-garden,  he  had  pressed  her  to 
drink  a  small  glass  of  brandy.  "It  all  started 
from  that,"  he  concluded.     "God  help  me!" 

He  certainly  had  to  pay  excessive  interest  on 
that  investment,  for  if  ever  a  mild  man  was 
nagged,  or  if  ever  a  patient  man  had  his  temper 
tried,  it  was  Uncle  Stanwood.  By  my  tenth 
birthday  the  house  walls  were  no  longer  echoing 
with  peace,  for  there  were  daily  tirades  of  wrath 
and  anger  about  the  table. 

These  family  rows  took  many  curious  turns. 
In  them  my  aunt,  well  read  in  Dickens,  whose 
writings  were  very  real  and  vivid  to  her,  freely 
drew  from  that  fiction  master's  gallery  of  types, 
and  fitted  them  to  uncle's  character.  "Don't 
sit  there  a-rubbin'  your  slimy  hands  like  Uriah 
Heep!"  she  would  exclaim;  or,  "Yes,  there  you 
go,  always  and  ever  a-sayin'  that  something's 
bound  to  turn  up,  you  old  Micawber,  you!" 

[14] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

But  this  literary  tailoring  was  not  at  all  one-sided, 
for  uncle  was  even  better  read  than  his  wife,  and 
with  great  effect  he  could  say,  "Yes,  there  you 
go,  always  insinuatin'  everlastingly,  like  Becky 
Sharp,"  and  the  drive  was  superlatively  effective 
in  that  uncle  well  knew  that  Thackeray's  book 
was  aunt's  favorite.  I  heard  him  one  day  com- 
pare his  wife  to  Mrs.  Gamp,  loving  her  nip 
of  ale  overmuch,  and  on  another  occasion  she 
was  actually  included  among  Mrs.  Jarley's 
wax- works ! 

There  was  a  curious  streak  of  benevolence  in 
my  aunt's  nature,  a  benevolence  that  concerned 
itself  more  with  strangers  than  with  those  in  her 
own  home.  I  have  seen  her  take  broths  and 
meats  to  neighbors,  when  uncle  and  I  have  had 
too  much  buttered  bread  and  preserves.  I  have 
seen  her  take  her  apron  with  her  to  a  neighbor's, 
where  she  washed  the  dishes,  while  her  own  had 
to  accumulate,  to  be  later  disposed  of  with  my 
assistance.  There  was  a  shiftless  man  in  the 
town,  the  town-crier,  who  would  never  take 
charity  outright.  Him  did  aunt  persuade  to 
come  and  paint  rural  scenes,  highly  colored  with 
glaring  tints,  as  if  nature  had  turned  color-blind. 
There  were  cows  in  every  scene,  and  aunt  noticed 
that  all  the  cows  were  up  to  their  knees  in  water. 
Not  one  stood  clear  on  the  vivid  green  hills. 

"Torvey,"  she  remarked  to  the  old  man, 
[15] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

"why  do  you  always  put  the  cows  in  water?" 
The  old  artist  responded,  "It's  this  way,  Mrs. 
Brindin,  you  see,  ma'am,  I  never  learnt  to  paint 
'oofs!"  As  a  further  benevolence  towards  this 
same  man,  she  kept  on  hand  a  worn-out  clock, 
for  him  to  earn  a  penny  on.  After  each  tinker- 
ing the  clock  was  never  known  to  run  more  than 
a  few  minutes  after  the  old  man  had  left.  But 
aunt  only  laughed  over  it,  and  called  Torvey 
"summat  of  a  codger,  to  be  sure!" 

I  attended  a  low  brick  schoolhouse  which  in 
spring  and  summer  time  was  buried  in  a  mass 
of  shade,  with  only  the  tile  chimneys  free  from 
a  coat  of  ivy.  The  headmaster  gave  us  brief 
holidays,  when  he  had  us  run  races  for  nuts. 
In  addition  to  the  usual  studies  I  was  taught 
darning,  crocheting,  plain  sewing,  and  knitting. 
Every  Monday  morning  I  had  to  take  my  penny 
for  tuition. 

Outside  of  school  hours  there  were  merry 
times,  scraping  sparks  on  the  stone  flags  with 
the  irons  of  our  clogs,  going  to  the  butcher's 
every  Tuesday  morning,  at  the  slaughter-house, 
where  he  gave  us  bladders  to  blow  up  and  play, 
football  with;  and  every  now  and  then  he  would 
ask  us  to  lay  hold  of  the  rope  and  help  in  felling 
a  bull  across  the  block.  The  only  apple  I  ever 
saw  growing  in  England  hung  over  a  brick  wall 
in  a  nest  of  leaves  —  a  red  crab  no  bigger  than 

[16] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

a  nutmeg.  I  used  to  visit  that  wall  with  my 
companions,  but  not  to  try  for  that  apple  —  it 
was  too  sacred  in  our  eyes  for  that  —  but  to 
admire  it,  as  it  bent  up  and  down  in  the  wind, 
and  to  wonder  how  many  more  were  inside  the 
wall  among  the  larger  branches.  On  Saturdays, 
after  I  had  brightened  the  stone  hearth  with  blue- 
stone  and  sand,  I  went  out  to  greet  the  Scotch 
bag-piper  who.,  with  his  wheezy  pibroch,  puffed 
out  like  a  roasted  Christmas  goose,  perambulated 
down  our  road  so  sedately  that  the  feather  in 
his  plaid  bonnet  never  quivered.  As  this  did 
not  take  up  all  the  morning,  we  borrowed  bread- 
knives  from  our  families,  and  went  to  the  fields, 
where  we  dug  under  the  sod,  amongst  the  fresh, 
damp  soil,  for  groundnuts,  while  the  soaring 
lark  dropped  its  sweet  note  down  on  us. 

But  the  gala  days  were  the  holidays,  filled  as 
only  the  English  know  how  to  fill  them  with 
high  romance  and  pure  fun.  There  were  the 
Sunday-school  "treats,"  when  we  went  to  the 
fields  in  holiday  clothes  and  ran,  leaped,  and 
frolicked  for  prize  cricket  balls  and  bats,  and 
had  for  refreshment  currant  buns  and  steam- 
ing coffee.  There  was  the  week  at  the  seashore, 
when  aunt  and  uncle  treated  me  to  a  rake,  shovel, 
and  colored  tin  pail,  for  my  use  on  the  shore  in 
digging  cockles,  making  sand  mountains,  and  in 
erecting  pebble  breastworks  to  keep  back  the 

[17] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

tide.  To  cap  all  else  as  a  gala  opportunity,  full 
of  color,  noise,  music,  and  confusion,  came  Glos- 
sop  Fair,  to  which  I  went  in  a  special  train  for 
children.  There  I  dodged  between  the  legs  of 
a  bow-legged,  puffy  old  man  to  keep  up  with 
the  conductor  of  our  party,  and  I  spent  several 
pennies  on  shallow  glasses  filled  with  pink  ices, 
which  I  licked  with  such  assiduity  that  my 
tongue  froze  at  the  third  consecutive  glass.  I 
was  always  given  pennies  enough  to  be  able  to 
stop  at  the  stalls  to  buy  a  sheep's  trotter,  with 
vinegar  on  it;  to  eat  a  fried  fish,  to  get  a  bag 
of  chipped  potatoes,  delicious  sticks  of  gold, 
covered  with  nice-tasting  grease,  and  to  buy  a 
Pan's  pipe,  a  set  of  eight-reed  whistles  on  which, 
though  I  purchased  several  sets,  I  was  never  able 
to  attain  to  the  dignity  and  the  thrill  of  so  simple 
a  tune  as  "God  Save  the  Queen."  The  grand 
climax  of  the  fair,  the  very  raison  d'etre,  were 
the  fairy  shows,  held  under  dirty  canvases,  with 
red-nosed  barkers  snapping  worn  whips  on  lurid 
canvases  whereon  were  pictured:  "Dick  Whit- 
tington  and  His  Cat,"  at  the  famous  milestone, 
with  a  very  impressionistic  London  town  in  the 
haze,  but  inevitable  for  Dick  and  His  Cat;  or 
"Jack  and  the  Beanstalk,"  showing  a  golden- 
haired  prince  in  blue  tights  and  a  cloud  of  a 
giant  reaching  out  a  huge  paw  to  get  the  innocent 
youth  and  cram  him  down  his  cavernous  maw. 

[18] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

"  'Ere  you  are,  Ladies  and  Gents!"  screamed 
the  barker,  pattering  nervously  and  significantly 
on  these  pictures,  Only  'riginal  'Dick  Whit- 
tington  and  His  Cat,'  Lord  Mayor  o'  Lunnon! 
Grown  ups  a  penny,  childer  'arf  price!  Step 
up  all!  The  band  will  play!  'Ere  you  are, 
now!     Tickets  over  there!" 

My  tenth  birthday  marked  the  end  of  my 
boyish,  merry  play-life.  Over  its  threshold  I 
was  to  meet  with  and  grasp  the  calloused  hand 
of  Labor.  Not  the  labor  which  keeps  a  healthy 
lad  from  mischief  or  loafing,  not  the  labor  of 
mere  thrift,  but  the  more  forbidding  form  of  it; 
the  labor  from  which  strong  men  cringe  in  dread, 
the  labor  from  which  men  often  seek  escape  by 
self-inflicted  death,  the  labor  of  sweat,  of  tears,  of 
pitiless  autocracy  —  the  labor  of  Necessity !  And 
necessity,  which  is  not  induced  by  reasonable 
and  excusable  circumstances,  nor  is  the  result  of 
a  mere  mistaken  judgment  of  events,  such  as 
comes  through  unskilled  business  acumen  or 
an  overconfidence  in  a  friend's  advice,  but 
the  necessity  which  is  rooted  in  carelessness, 
squandering,  drunkenness. 

For  in  that  tenth  year  of  my  life,  what  had 
appeared  to  be  the  strong  walls  of  my  uncle's 
house  collapsed  utterly.  The  undermining  had 
been  unseen,  unthought  of.  In  that  year  the  par- 
lors of  the  "Linnet's  Nest"  and  "The  Blue  Sign" 

[19] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

saw  more  of  my  uncle  than  they  had  previously. 
His  piano-playing  and  his  flute  solos  formed  an 
almost  continuous  performance  from  early  after- 
noon until  late  at  night.  When  he  started  out 
to  peddle  his  fish,  he  would  stop  Bob  in  front  of 
the  "Linnet's  Nest"  and  forget  his  customers 
until  I  went  and  reminded  him.  The  public 
house  tills  began  to  draw  the  money  that  came 
to  uncle's  from  his  peddling,  his  shop,  and  the 
interest  from  his  bank  account.  But  the  money 
loss  was  trivial  in  comparison  with  the  loss  of 
what  little  business  initiative  or  inclination  he 
had  possessed.  He  soon  became  unfit  to  order 
fish  from  Manchester.  His  former  customers 
could  not  depend  upon  him.  Uncle  Stanwood 
had  become  a  confirmed  drunkard. 

Previous  to  this,  in  spite  of  the  incompatibility 
of  temper  between  uncle  and  aunt,  there  had 
always  been  a  little  breath  of  peace  around  our 
fender,  but  now  it  fled,  and  the  house  was  filled 
with  nervous  bickerings,  hiccoughs,  and  piggish 
snortings.  The  temple  of  man  that  had  been 
so  imperfectly  built  was  henceforth  profaned. 
The  fluent  words  passed,  and  an  incoherent 
gurgle  took  their  place.  The  intelligent  gleam 
grew  dim  in  those  sad  grey  eyes.  The  firm  strides 
which  had  indicated  not  a  little  pride  became 
senile,  tottering,  childish.  There  was  written 
over  the  lintels  of  our  door:  "Lost,  A  Man." 

[20] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

All  this  was  not  one  thousandth  part  so 
serious  to  the  creditors  who  clamored  for  their 
pay  as  it  was  to  aunt  and  me.  To  see  that 
slouching,  dull-eyed,  slavering  creature  cross 
the  kitchen  threshold  and  tumble  in  a  limp  heap 
on  the  sanded  floor  was  a  sword-thrust  that 
started  deep,  unhealing  wounds.  The  man  and 
boy  changed  places,  suddenly.  That  strange, 
huddled,  groping  creature,  helpless  on  the  couch, 
his  muddy  shoes  daubing  the  clothes,  was  not 
the  uncle  I  had  known.  I  seemed  to  have  no 
uncle.  I  had  lost  him,  indeed,  and  now  had  to 
take  his  place  as  best  I  could.  Aunt  tried  her 
best,  with  my  help,  to  keep  the  business  going, 
but  the  task  was  beyond  us,  as  we  plainly  saw. 

But  uncle  fought  battles  in  his  effort  to  mas- 
ter himself.  He  strained  his  will  to  its  utmost; 
postulated  morning  after  morning  intentions  of 
"bracing  up";  took  roundabout  routes  with 
his  cart  to  avoid  the  public  houses,  left  his  purse 
at  home,  sent  aunt  to  Manchester  to  buy  the 
fish  so  that  he  would  not  have  that  temptation, 
took  me  with  him  to  remind  him  of  his  promises, 
even  sent  word  to  the  "  Blue  Sign  "  and  the  "  Lin- 
net's Nest"  to  give  him  no  more  credit,  and 
signed  the  pledge;  but  the  compelling  thirst  would 
not  be  tamed.  To  take  a  roundabout  route  in 
the  morning  only  meant  that  he  would  tie  up  his 
horse  at  the  "Blue  Sign"  lamp-post  on  his  way 

[21] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

back;  to  send  aunt  to  Manchester  only  meant 
that,  with  her  out  of  the  way,  he  had  a  clear  road 
to  the  "Linnet's  Nest."  When  I  went  with  him, 
as  a  moral  mentor,  he  bribed  me  with  a  penny  to 
get  me  out  of  the  way.  Sometimes  he  left  me 
waiting  for  him  until  I  grew  so  miserable  that 
I  drove  home  alone.  As  uncle  was  a  good  cus- 
tomer, the  public  houses  only  smiled  when  he  sent 
word  to  them  not  to  give  him  credit;  they  were 
not  in  the  business  of  sobering  customers. 

So  it  was  a  losing  fight  all  the  way.  Uncle 
was  a  coward  in  full  retreat.  He  blamed  nobody 
but  himself;  in  that  he  was  not  a  coward.  In  his 
sober  moments  there  was  a  new  and  discouraging 
note  in  his  voice.  He  echoed  the  language  of 
those  who  fail.  He  met  me  with  an  ashamed 
face.  He  looked  furtively  at  me,  just  as  a  guilty 
man  would  look  on  one  he  had  deeply  wronged. 
His  shoulders  stooped,  as  do  the  shoulders  of  a 
man  who  for  the  first  time  carries  a  heavy  burden 
of  shame. 

Aunt  Millie,  in  attempting  to  mend  matters, 
unfortunately  used  the  wrong  method.  She 
antagonized  her  husband,  sometimes  beyond 
mortal  patience.  She  generally  waited  until 
my  uncle  was  sober,  and  then  let  loose  vitupera- 
tive storms  that  fell  with  crashing  force  on  his 
spirit.  She  was  mistress  of  the  vocabulary  of 
invective;  the  stinging  word,  the  humiliating, 

[22] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

the  maddening  word  was  instant  on  her  lips. 
She  did  not  have  her  word  once  and  for  all.  If 
she  had,  it  would  probably  have  saved  matters; 
but  she  kept  up  a  steady  stream  of  abuse  through 
out  the  time  uncle  was  in  the  house.  Often  he 
was  planning  for  a  night  of  home  when  his  wife 
would  unload  the  full  burden  of  her  ire  on  him; 
and  if  only  for  quietness,  he  would  leave  the 
house  altogether  and  find  solace  in  the  noggins 
and  mugs. 

As  an  onlooker,  and  though  a  mere  lad,  I  saw 
that  my  aunt  was  taking  the  wrong  course,  and 
every  now  and  then,  like  a  Greek  chorus  at  the 
tragedy,  I  would  remonstrate  with  her,  "Why 
don't  you  let  him  alone  when  he  wants  to  stay 
at  home?  You've  driven  him  off  when  he  was 
not  going  out,  aunt!" 

"You  clown!"  she  would  storm,  "mind  your 
place  and  manners  before  I  turn  on  you  and  give 
you  a  taste  of  the  strap!" 

After  that  it  became  my  custom,  whenever 
uncle  was  getting  a  tongue-lashing,  to  say  to 
him,  in  a  whisper,  "Don't  mind  her,  uncle. 
Don't  leave  the  house.  She  doesn't  know  what 
she's  saying!"  In  secret,  uncle  would  say  to 
me,  "It's  more  than  flesh  and  blood  can  stand, 
Al,  this  constant  nagging.  I'd  not  be  half  so 
much  away  in  the  public  houses  if  she'd  let  me 
have  a  peaceful  time  at  home." 

[23] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

Indeed,  my  uncle,  intoxicated  was  five  times 
more  agreeable  than  was  his  wife  when  angered. 
She  herself  was  drinking  mildly,  and  every  sup 
of  ale  fired  her  temper  until  it  burned  at  white 
heat.  All  the  bulldog  of  the  British  roared  and 
yelped  in  her  then.  If  contradicted  by  my 
uncle  or  me,  she  threw  the  first  thing  to  hand, 
saucer,  knife,  or  loaf.  So  fearful  was  I  that 
murder  would  ensue,  that  several  times  I  whis- 
pered to  my  uncle  to  go  off  to  the  "  Linnet's 
Nest "  in  the  interests  of  peace. 

Like  the  reports  of  the  messengers  bringing 
to  Job  the  full  measure  of  his  loss,  came  market 
letters  from  Manchester,  unpaid  bills  from  the 
town  merchants,  and  personal  repudiations  by 
my  uncle's  old  customers.  We  had  to  solicit 
credit  from  the  shop-keepers.  Failure  was  on 
its  way. 

One  spring  day  in  that  year  Uncle  Stanwood 
came  into  the  house  in  great  excitement.  He 
met  my  aunt's  inquiring  remark  with,  "I'm 
going  to  ship  for  the  United  States,  Millie!" 

' '  Ship  your  grandaddy ! ' '  she  retorted .  *  'Been 
drinking  gin  this  time,  eh?" 

"I'm  sober  enough,  thank  God,"  replied  uncle. 
"I've  borrowed  enough  money  to  carry  me  across. 
That's  the  only  way  I  shall  ever  straighten  out 
and  get  away  from  the  public  houses.  It's  best; 
don't  you  think  so,  old  girl?" 

[24] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

"What  about  us?"  asked  my  aunt  with  an 
angry  gleam  in  her  eyes.  "What's  to  become 
of  us?" 

"Why,"  stammered  uncle,  "you  see  I  must 
go  on  ahead  and  get  something  to  do,  first;  then 
I  can  send  for  you,  Millie.  Think  what  it  means 
for  us  to  get  away  to  America,  where  are  so  many 
bright  chances!  God  knows  but  I  shall  be  able 
to  lift  up  my  head  there,  and  get  a  new  start. 
I  can't  do  anything  so  long  as  I  stay  here." 

So,  after  the  first  shock  had  passed,  it  was 
arranged.  For  the  first  time  in  many  days  I 
saw  my  uncle  put  his  arms  around  his  wife's 
shoulders,  as  if  he  were  courting  her  again,  and 
re-dreaming  youth's  dream,  as  he  painted  with 
winsome  colors  this  new  adventure.  When  hope 
was  shining  its  brightest  in  his  eye  my  aunt's 
caught  the  gleam  of  it,  and  in  a  much  kinder 
voice  than  I  was  used  to  hearing,  she  said,  "Do 
it,  Stanwood!  Do  it,  and  we'll  look  after  the 
business  while  you  get  ready  for  us  in  the  new 
world!" 

In  another  week  my  uncle  had  packed  his 
belongings  in  a  tin  trunk,  had  said  good-by  to 
his  old-time  friends,  had  taken  us  with  him  to 
the  station  to  talk  earnestly,  manfully  with  us 
until  the  Liverpool  train  came  in.  Then  we 
went  through  the  gates  to  the  compartment,  and 
saw  him  shut  in  by  the  guard.     Through  the 

[25] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

open  window  he  whispered  counsel  and  tender 
words,  and  re-echoed  his  new  purposes.  Then 
there  was  a  stir,  the  train  began  to  move  away 
from  us,  and  my  uncle  was  plunging  off  towards 
a  new  world,  and,  we  prayed,  towards  a  new 
manhood,  leaving  aunt  and  me  dazed  at  our  new 
loneliness. 


[26] 


Chapter  IL     Dripping  Potatoes^ 

Diplomatic  Charity r,   and 

Christmas   Carols 


Chapter  II.  Dripping  Potatoes, 
Diplomatic  Charity,  and  Christ- 
mas  Carols. 

CONTRARY  to  his  promise,  Uncle  did 
not  write  to  us  announcing  his  arrival. 
In  fact,  for  some  strange  reason,  no 
letter  had  arrived  by  the  end  of 
summer.  After  the  leaves  had  gone 
and  the  trees  were  left  stripped  by  the  fall  winds, 
no  word  had  come  to  comfort  us  from  America. 
Aunt  and  I  had  tried  to  keep  the  shop  open, 
but  we  saw  every  day  that  we  had  not  the  skill 
to  make  it  a  success.  Already,  in  the  minds  of 
the  townspeople,  we  had  failed.  It  was  not 
long  before  we  were  selling  nothing  but  the 
smoked  and  dried  fish  with  which  the  shop  was 
stocked.  We  could  get  no  fresh  fish  on  credit. 
Even  the  grocer  would  not  longer  trust  us,  and 
shut  off  supplies.  We  tried  to  make  out  as  well 
as  we  could,  but  not  philosophically,  on  dry 
bread,  smoked  fish,  and  tea,  with  monotonous 

[29] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

regularity.  Aunt  Millie  was  the  wrong  kind  of 
person  to  live  with  in  reduced  circumstances. 
She  took  away  the  taste  of  a  red  herring  by  her 
complaints  and  impatient  tirades  against  the 
author  of  our  misfortune.  The  failure  of  letters, 
too,  only  increased  her  anger.  There  was 
heated  complaint  for  dessert  at  every  meal. 
That  Scriptural  word,  "Better  is  a  dinner  of 
herbs  where  love  is,"  might  have  meant  much 
to  me  during  those  hungry  days. 

Then  our  collateral  had  to  go,  a  piece  at  a 
time.  Bob,  the  one-eyed  horse,  friend  of  those 
early  years,  harnessed  to  his  cart,  brought  in 
some  money  with  which  we  could  buy  a  little 
fresh  stock  which  I  tried  to  peddle  in  a  hand- 
cart. But  I  could  not  get  around  very  skilfully, 
and  as  I  trudged  over  the  same  route  where 
previously  my  uncle  had  gone  with  his  humorous 
shout  of  "Mussels  alive!  Buy  'em  alive!" 
people  did  not  trade  with  me,  but  pitied  me,  and 
stroked  my  head  in  sympathy.  When  the  stock 
was  gone,  and  it  was  soon  gone,  my  aunt  thought 
that  she  had  better  give  up  the  fight  and  sell 
out  at  auction! 

By  this  time  winter  was  full  on  us.  There 
were  snow  and  dismal  winds  which  made  lonely 
sounds  down  our  chimney.  Old  Torvey,  the 
town-crier,  was  called  in  for  a  consultation,  and 
the  auction  definitely  planned.     The  following 

[30] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

Saturday,  in  the  morning,  while  the  housewives 
were  busy  polishing  their  fenders,  Old  Torvey, 
clanging  his  hand-bell  with  great  unction,  came 
up  the  middle  of  the  road,  stopping  at  strategic 
points,  and  when  the  aproned  housewives  and 
their  children  stood  at  their  doors  alert,  he  sol- 
emnly announced,  in  his  sing-song  way :  "To — 
be  —  sold  —  at  —  Public  —  Auction  —  this  — 
day — at — two — in — the — afternoon — all — the 
stock — in — trade — of — Stan  wood — Brindin — 
at — his — shop — at — the — head — of — Station 
— Road — together — with — all — the — movable 
— fixtures — therein — and — any — other — items 
— not — herein — mentioned  —  Sale — to — begin 

—  sharply  —  on  —  time  —  and  —  goods  —  to  — 
go —  to — the — highest — bidder — Terms — cash 

—  and — all — bids — welcomed — Come — one — 
and — all — Two — in — the — afternoon.  Now — 
get  —  back  —  to  —  your  —  cleaning  —  before  — 
your — chaps  —  get — whom!"  —  this  last  as  a 
sally  for  the  women,  "whom"  meaning  "home." 

All  the  afternoon,  while  the  auction  was  in 
session,  aunt  and  I  sat  in  the  parlor  of  our 
house,  behind  the  flower-pots,  watching  all  who 
went  in.  Aunt  kept  up  a  running  commentary: 
"Yes,  you  go  in,  too,  Jane  Harrup.  You 
wouldn't  come  near  me  to  buy,  would  you?  Urn, 
that  blood-sucker,  Thompson !  What  a  crowd  of 
vampires  a  sale  can  bring  out!      I  didn't  think 

[31] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

that  you  were  looking  for  bargains  from  us, 
Martin  Comfort.  It's  beyond  me  how  folks  do 
gather  when  you  are  down!" 

Then,  when  the  last  of  the  curious  crowd  had 
gone  and  the  shop  had  passed  from  our  control, 
there  came  anxious  shopmen  demanding  the 
settlement  of  their  bills.  And  when  the  last 
item  had  been  paid  there  was  hardly  a  shilling 
left.  We  had  merely  succeeded  in  settling  the 
honor  of  our  house. 

The  next  week  the  town-crier  once  more  pa- 
raded the  streets  of  the  town, announcing:  "To — 
be  —  sold — at — public — auction — at  —  two  — 
in — the — afternoon — many — of — the — house- 
hold — effects — of — Stan  wood — Brindin — etc." 
This  time  our  parlor  was  stripped  of  its  piano, 
several  ornamental  pieces  of  furniture,  and  vari- 
ous bric-a-brac.  When  the  bidders  had  carted 
away  their  "bargains,"  my  aunt  said  to  me,  "Here 
is  one  room  less  to  look  after,  Al.  I  suppose 
I  ought  to  be  thankful  enough,  but  I'm  not!" 
After  that,  we  lived  entirely  in  the  kitchen. 

So,  with  only  a  few  shillings  from  the  proceeds 
of  the  last  auction,  aunt  and  I  faced  the  winter. 
We  were  buoyed  up  by  the  hope  that  Uncle 
Stanwood  would  send  us  a  letter  despite  his 
strange  silence.  But  day  by  day  the  coal  grew 
less  and  less  in  the  cellar,  the  wood  was  burned 
up,  and  the  larder  needed  replenishing. 

[32] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

There  came  to  our  ears  whispers  of  gossip  that 
were  spreading  through  the  town:  that  uncle 
had  parted  from  aunt  and  would  never  live  with 
her  again,  that  our  financial  perplexities  were 
really  ten  times  worse  than  people  imagined, 
that  we  should  eventually  be  forced  into  the 
workhouse ! 

Behind  that  door,  which  only  opened  every 
now  and  then  in  answer  to  a  friendly  knock,  a 
real  battle  with  poverty  was  fought.  Dry  bread 
and  tea  (the  cups  always  with  thick  dregs  of 
swollen,  soaked  leaves  which  I  used  to  press  with 
a  spoon  to  extract  every  possible  drop  of  tea) 
finally  formed  the  burden  of  unnourishing  meals. 
Even  the  tea  failed  at  last,  and  the  bread  we  ate 
was  very  stale  indeed.  Yet  I  found  dry  bread  had 
a  good  taste  when  there  was  nothing  else  to  eat. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  December  that  Aunt 
bethought  herself  of  some  herring-boxes  piled  in 
the  garret  over  the  empty  shop.  She  had  me 
split  them  into  kindlings,  tie  them  into  penny 
bundles,  and  sent  me  out  to  peddle  them  at  the 
doors  of  our  friends.  Aunt  made  me  wait  until 
darkness  when  I  first  went  out  with  the  kindling. 
She  did  not  want  me  to  be  seen  in  the  daylight 
carrying  the  wood.  That  day  we  had  eaten  but 
a  breakfast  of  oat-cake  and  water,  and  I  was  very 
hungry  and  impatient  to  sell  some  wood  that  I 
might  have  something  more  to  eat.     But  aunt 

[33] 


THROUGH    THE    MILL 

was  firm,  so  that  it  was  six  o'clock  and  very  dark 
when  I  took  two  penny  bundles.  The  cotton 
mills  had  all  their  lights  out.  The  street-lamps 
were  little  dismal  spots  in  the  silent  streets. 
Warm  glows  of  light  came  from  front  windows, 
and  the  shadows  of  housewives  serving  supper 
were  seen  on  many  window  blinds.  My  own 
hunger  redoubled.  I  hurried  to  the  first  house 
on  a  side  street,  gave  a  timid  knock,  and  waited 
for  an  answer.  A  big,  rosy-cheeked  woman 
opened  the  door,  and  peered  down  on  me,  saying, 
"Where  art'?" 

"Please,  ma'am,  if  you  please,"  I  replied, 
"I'm  Al  Priddy,  and  me  and  Aunt  haven't  got 
anything  to  eat  for  tea,  and  I'm  selling  bundles 
of  dry  wood  for  a  penny  apiece." 

"Bless  'is  little  'eart,"  exclaimed  the  big 
woman.  "Bless  th'  little  'eart!  'is  belly's 
empty,  that  it  is.  Come  reight  in,  little  Priddy 
lad,  there's  waarm  teigh(tea)  and  'ot  buttered 
crumpets.  Sarah  Jane,"  she  shouted  towards 
the  rear  of  the  house  from  whence  came  the 
tinkle  of  spoons  rattling  in  cups  and  a  low  hum 
of  voices,  "get  that  tu'pence  from  under  th' 
china  shep'erdess  on't  mantle  and  bring  it  reight 
off.     Come  in,  Priddy,  lad,  and  fill  th'  belly!" 

"If  you  please,  ma'am,"  I  said,  "I  can't  stop, 
if  you  please.  Aunt  Millie  hasn't  got  anything 
to  eat  and  she's  waiting  me.     I  think  I'll  take 

[34] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

the  money,  if  you  please,  and  be  sharp  home, 
thank  you!" 

"Bless  'is  little  'eart,"  murmured  the  big 
woman,  "'ere's  tuppence  'apenny,  an'  come 
ageen,  wen  tha  has't  moor  wood  to  sell." 

"If  you  please,"  I  interposed,  "it's  only 
tu'pence.     I  can't  take  more;  aunt  said  so!" 

"Bless  'is  'eart,  that's  so,"  said  the  big  woman. 
"Is  th'  sure  th'  won't  eat  a  waarm  crumpet, 
little  Priddy,  lad?" 

I  had  to  refuse  again,  and  clutching  the  two 
pennies,  I  ran  exultantly  down  the  road  toward 
home,  where  aunt  was  sitting  near  the  very  tiny 
light  that  a  very  tiny  piece  of  coal  was  giving 
in  the  big  fireplace.  With  one  penny  I  pur- 
chased a  warm  loaf  and  with  the  other  I  bought 
some  golden  treacle,  and  that  night  there  was 
not  a  lord  in  England  whose  supper  had  the 
taste  to  it  that  mine  had. 

Two  days  after  that,  when  we  were  once  more 
without  food  in  the  house,  and  when  I  had  had 
but  a  scant  breakfast,  I  met  a  rough-garbed  boy 
not  much  older  than  myself,  a  homeless  waif, 
known  and  condemned  by  the  name  of  "Work 
'Ouse  Teddy."  This  day  that  I  met  him,  he 
performed  his  usual  feat  of  wriggling  his  fingers 
on  his  nose,  a  horrible,  silent,  swear  gesture,  and 
called  out  to  me,  "Hey,  Fishy,  got  a  cockle  on 
your  nose?" 

[35] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

"No,"  I  replied,  being  secretly  afraid  of  him, 
"I've  not.  I'm  hungry.  I  haven't  had  any 
dinner." 

"Aw,  yer  got  chunks  of  money,  you  have,  I 
knows.  Don't  taffy  me  like  that  or  I'll  squeege  yer 
nose  in  my  thumbs,  blast  me,  I  will ! "  and  he  made 
a  horrible  contortion  of  his  face  to  frighten  me. 

"I  am  hungry!"  I  protested.  "We  are  poor 
now,  Teddy." 

Then  I  told  him  all  our  story,  as  well  as  I  could, 
and  when  I  told  him  about  selling  the  kindling, 
he  laughed  and  said,  "Blow  me,  you  codger! 
You  oughter  get  your  meals  like  I  gets  um.  Say, 
now,  blokey,  wot  you  say  to  —  well,  let's  see." 
and  he  mused  awhile. 

Then,"  Well,  say,  wot  would  yer  say  to  'taters 
in  gravy,  some  meat-pie,  cold,  and  a  drink  of 
coffee?" 

"Oh,"  I  gasped,  "that  would  be  rich."  Then 
Teddy  winked,  a  broad,  meaningful  wink.  "I'm 
yer  Daddy,  then,"  and  after  that,  "make  a  cross 
over  yer  'eart,  and  say,  '  Kill  me,  skin  me,  Lord 
Almighty,  if  I  tell ! ' "  and  when  I  had  so  sworn,  he 
explained,  "Now  yer  won't  let  on  where  I  keep 
things,  so  come  on,  blokey,  I'm  yer  Daddy!"  and 
he  laughed  as  merrily  as  if  he  did  not  have  to 
sleep  out  like  a  lost  sheep  of  society  or  to  dodge 
the  police,  who  were  ever  on  his  tracks  trying  to 
get  him  put  back  into  the  workhouse. 

[36] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

Teddy  led  me  through  the  open  gates  of  the 
mill-yard  when  darkness  had  come  on.  The 
firemen,  in  the  glow  of  their  furnaces,  called  out, 
cheerily,  "Blast  th'  eyes,  Teddy,  don't  let  the 
boss  catch  thee!"  and,  "Got  a  chew  of  thick 
twist  (tobacco)  for  me,  Ted,  lad  ?  "  After  he  had 
given  the  man  a  chew,  and  had  boxed  a  round 
with  the  other  stoker,  Teddy  came  to  where  I 
stood,  and  said,  "They  let  me  sleep  here  nights. 
They're  good  blokes.  Now,  here's  where  I  keeps 
things."  So  saying,  he  led  me  to  a  corner  of  the 
immense  coal  heap,  and  there,  in  a  box  amidst 
thick  heaps  of  coal  powder,  he  drew  out  a  pitcher 
with  the  lip  gone  and  only  a  useless  fragment  of 
the  handle  left.  He  also  drew  out  a  sort  of  pie 
plate  and  a  small  fruit  basket.  "I  keeps  'em 
there  to  keep  the  dust  off,"  he  explained,  and 
handed  me  the  basket.  "Now  we  get  ready  to 
eat  dripping  potatoes  and  meat-pie,  bloke." 
Then  he  took  me  near  the  furnaces,  behind  a  heap 
of  coal,  so  that  the  boss  watchman  would  not  find 
us,  and  elaborately  explained  to  me  the  procedure 
to  be  followed  in  getting  so  tasty  a  supper. 

"When  the  mill  lets  out  at  six,  me  an'  you'll 
stand  there  at  the  gates,  you  standin'  on  one 
side  and  me  on  t'ther.  You  don'  be  shy,  bloke, 
but  speak  up,  and  say,  'Any  leavin's,  good  folks!' 
'Give  us  yer  leavin's!'  Some  on  um'll  grumble 
at  you,  an'  some'll  say,  '  Get  off,  you  bloke,  we'll 

[37] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

tell  the  Bobby,'  but  they  won't.  You'll  find 
some  that'll  open  their  boxes  and  turn  'em 
inside  out  for  you  right  in  the  basket.  Then 
you  just  come  over  to  my  side,  and  I'll  show  you. 
Just  remember  that  it's  dripping  'taters  an' 
meat-pie  an'  'ot  coffee!  Don't  that  make  yer 
mouth  water,  bloke?" 

I  said  that  it  would  be  a  regular  feast. 

At  six  o'clock,  when  the  clang  of  a  big  bell  in 
the  mill  tower  let  itself  out  in  a  riot  of  din,  the 
whole  inside  of  the  factory  seemed  to  run  down 
with  a  deepening  hum,  then  the  quiet  precincts 
of  the  yards  became  filled  with  a  chattering, 
black  army.  Teddy  and  I  stood  on  our  respec- 
tive sides  of  the  big  gateway,  and  waited  for  the 
exodus.  I  grew  suddenly  afraid  that  I  should 
be  trampled  under  foot,  afraid  that  my  voice 
would  not  be  heard,  afraid  that  I  should  be 
jailed.  So  I  let  most  of  the  crowd  past  unsoli- 
cited, and  then  I  grew  afraid  that  Teddy  would 
perform  all  manner  of  horrible  and  grewsome 
tortures  on  me  if  I  did  not  try,  so  I  darted  my 
basket  almost  into  the  stomach  of  a  tall  man,  and 
piped, "  Got  any  leavings,  sir?  "  He  paused,  looked 
me  over,  took  the  dirty  pipe  from  his  mouth  as  he 
further  extended  his  contemplation,  and  said, 
"  Sartinly,  lad,"  and  deposited  in  my  basket  a  cur- 
rant bun  and  a  slice  of  cold  meat,  and  went  on 
muttering,  "It  might  be  my  own,  God  knows!" 

[38] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

The  gas  lights  were  out  in  the  mill,  and  the 
huge  bulk  was  merely  part  of  the  silent  night, 
when  I  went  across  and  showed  Teddy  what  I 
had  obtained.  He  laughed,  '  'Not  at  all  bad  — 
for  a  learner,  that!"  he  commented.  "It  takes 
practice  to  get  dripping  'tato  and  meat-pie, 
bloke.  I  got  it  and  a  jug  o'  coffee.  We'll  eat 
near  the  bilers,"  and  he  led  the  way  into  the 
yard,  making  me  dodge  behind  a  pile  of  boxes 
as  the  night  watchman  came  to  lock  the  gates. 
The  firemen  allowed  Teddy  to  warm  the  coffee 
and  the  food,  and  then  we  sat  in  the  glow  of  the 
opening  doors,  in  a  bed  of  coal  dust,  and  ate  as 
sumptuous  a  meal  as  had  passed  my  lips  for 
some  time. 

When  I  expressed  my  thanks,  Teddy  said, 
"Be  on  deck  to-morrer,  too,  bloke.  It'll  be  fish 
then.     Would  you  like  fish?" 

"I  do  like  fish,"  I  agreed.  "I  will  come  to- 
morrow, Teddy,  thank  you  kindly." 

"I'll  go  to  the  gate  with  yer  an'  give  yer  a 
leg  o'er.  The  gate's  locked,  bloke."  After 
many  slips,  Teddy  at  last  had  me  over,  and  as 
he  said  good-night  through  the  pickets,  I  said, 
"Will  you  sleep  out  in  the  snow,  to-night, 
Teddy?" 

He  laughed,  "Oh,  no,  blokey,  not  me.  Wot's 
the  matter  with  a  snooze  near  the  bilers  with  a 
cobble  o'  coal  for  a  piller,  eh?"     Knowing  that 

[39] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

he  would  be  perhaps  warmer  than  I,  I  left  him, 
and  ran  home  to  tell  my  aunt  what  a  good  supper 
I  had  picked  up. 

When  I  had  finished  the  recital  of  the  adven- 
ture, my  aunt  grew  very  indignant  and  gave  me 
a  severe  whipping  with  a  solid  leather  strap. 
"Shamin'  me  up  and  down  like  that!"  she  cried. 
"Beggin'  at  a  mill  gate!  I'll  show  you!"  and 
I  had  to  swear  not  to  have  anything  more  to  do 
with  Work'ouse  Teddy. 

But  evidently  through  that  experience,  and 
on  account  of  my  having  sold  the  kindling  wood, 
our  friends  were  at  last  apprised  of  the  actual 
poverty  in  our  house,  and  for  a  while  there 
seemed  to  be  no  end  to  the  little  offerings  of  food 
that  were  brought  in.  I  shall  always  remember 
with  pride  the  diplomacy  with  which  most  of 
the  food  was  given.  When  Mrs.  Harrup  brought 
in  a  steaming  pigeon-pie,  wrapped  in  a  spotless 
napkin,  she  said,  "Mrs.  Brindin,  I  had  more 
meat  than  I  knew  what  to  do  with  and  some  pie- 
crust left  to  waste,  so  I  says  to  our  Elizabeth 
Ann,  'Lizzie  Ann,  make  up  a  little  pie  for  Mrs. 
Brindin,  to  let  her  see  how  well  you're  doing 
with  crust.  She  knows  good  crust  when  she 
tastes  it,  and  I  want  you  to  let  her  pass  judg- 
ment on  it,  Lizzie  Ann.'  I  said,  likewise, 
'Lizzie  Ann,  if  thy  pie-crust  doesna'  suit  Mrs. 
Brindin,  then  thy  'usband'll  never  be  suited.' 

[40] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

So  here's  it,  Mrs.  Brindin.     Never  mind  wash- 
ing the  dish,  please." 

Mrs.  Harrow,  the  iron  monger's  demure  wife, 
herself  a  bride  of  but  two  months,  came  in  one 
morning,  dangling  a  long,  lank  hare.  She  had 
a  doubtful  expression  on  her  face,  and,  as  soon 
as  she  had  crossed  the  threshold  of  our  kitchen, 
she  made  haste  to  fling  the  hare  on  our  table, 
exclaiming,  "There,  Mrs.  Brindin.  There  it  is 
for  you  to  tell  us  on't.  I  bought  it  yestere'en 
down't  lower  road  and  it  come  this  morning, 
early.  I  was  going  to  stew  it,  but  then  I  smelled 
it.  It's  not  a  bit  nice  smell,  is't?  I  couldn't 
bring  myself  to  put  it  in  the  stew.  I  made  a 
pudding  and  dumpling  dinner  'stead.  Just  you 
sniff  at  it,  Mrs.  Brindin.  You  know  about  'em, 
bein'  as  you  sold  'em,  mony  on  'em.  It  don't 
smell  tidy,  do  it?"  She  looked  anxiously  at 
aunt.  "Why,  Mrs.  Harrow,"  said  my  aunt, 
"'Ares  always  are  that  way.  It  all  goes  off  in 
the  cooking.     It's  nothing  to  bother  over." 

"Uh,"  said  the  iron  monger's  wife,  "come  off 
or  not,  I  could  never  eat  it.  I  never  could.  I 
wonder,  Mrs.  Brindin,  if  you  will  let  Al,  there, 
throw  it  away  or  do  something  with  it.  I  will 
never  have  such  a  thing  in  my  house!"  and  she 
hurried  out  of  the  kitchen. 

"Al,"  smiled  aunt,  a  rare  smile,  "here's  stew 
and  pie  for  near  a  week." 

[41] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

Our  neighbors  could  not  always  be  doing  such 
diplomatic  acts,  and  after  a  while  we  had  to  go 
back  to  treacle  and  bread,  hourly  expecting 
word  from  America.  We  had  faith  that  Uncle 
Stanwood  would  let  us  hear  from  him,  though 
his  long,  disheartening  silence  worried  us  con- 
siderably. Aunt  did  not  go  to  work,  because  she 
hoped  at  any  day  to  hear  the  call,  "Come  to 
America."  Then  in  desperation  Aunt  had  her 
name  put  on  the  pauper's  list  for  a  shilling  a 
week.  I  had  to  go  to  the  parish  house  on  Mon- 
day mornings,  and  stand  in  line  with  veteran 
paupers — "Barley-corn  Jack," the  epileptic  octo- 
genarian, Widow  Stanbridge,  whose  mother  and 
grandparents  before  her  had  stood  in  this  Mon- 
day line,  Nat  Harewell,  the  Crimean  hero,  who 
had  a  shot  wound  in  his  back,  and  many  other 
minor  characters  who  came  for  the  shilling. 
The  first  Monday  I  stood  in't,  I  chanced  to  step 
in  front  of  "Barley-corn"  Jack,  who,  unknown 
to  me  at  the  time,  was  usually  given  the  place 
of  honor  at  the  head  of  the  line.  He  clutched 
me  by  the  nape  of  the  neck,  whirled  me  around, 
lifted  up  my  upper  lip  with  a  dirty  finger,  and 
grinned,  "Got  a  row  of  'em,  likely  'nough! 
Screw  th'  face,  young  un,  screw  it  tight,  wil't? 

I  was  so  terror  stricken,  and  tried  to  escape 
his  clutch  with  such  desperation,  that  Nat  Hare- 
well  interjected,  "Lend  'im  hup,  Jack,  lend  'im 

[42] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

hup,  owld  un!"  and  Jack  did  let  me  go  with  a 
whirl  like  a  top  until  I  was  dazed.  I  fell  in  line 
near  the  Widow,  who  laughed  at  me,  showing 
her  black  teeth;  and  then,  while  she  twisted  an 
edge  of  her  highly  flavored  and  discolored  shawl, 
and  chewed  on  it,  she  asked,  "  Was't  ale  ur  porter 
'at  browt  thee  wi'  uns,  laddie?" 

I  replied  that  I  was  Al  Priddy  and  that  7  was 
"respectable.''  With  that,  the  line  began  to 
move  past  the  clerk's  window,  and  there  was  no 
more  talking. 

In  such  circumstances  we  reached  the  Christ- 
mas season,  and  still  we  had  no  word  from  Amer- 
ica. It  was  the  night  before  Christmas,  and  a 
night  before  Christmas  in  an  English  town  is 
astir  with  romance,  joy,  and  poetic  feeling.  The 
linen  draper  had  a  white  clay  church  in  his 
window,  with  colored  glass  windows  behind 
which  burned  a  candle.  The  butcher  had  his 
pink  pig  in  his  window  with  a  hat  on  its  head, 
a  Christmas  grin  on  its  face,  and  a  fringe  of 
pigs'  tails  curled  into  spirals  hanging  in  rows 
above  him.  There  were  tinsel  laden  trees  with 
golden  oranges  peeping  out  from  behind  the 
candy  stockings,  wonderlands  of  toys,  and  The 
Home  of  Santy,  where  he  was  seen  busy 
making  toys  for  the  world.  I  had  gone  down 
the  row  with  my  aunt,  looking  at  all  that,  for 
aunt  had  said,  "Al,  there's  to  be  a  sorry  Christ- 

[43] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

mas  for  you  this  time.  You  had  better  get  all 
you  can  of  it  from  the  shop  windows."  We  were 
pushed  this  way  and  that  by  the  crowds  that 
went  by  doing  their  shopping.  Once  we  had 
been  with  them  in  the  Christmas  spirit,  now  we 
dwelt  apart  because  of  our  poverty. 

"My,"  commented  aunt,  with  the  old  bitter- 
ness in  her  tone,  "the  fools!  Parading  afore  us 
to  let  us  see  that  they  can  have  a  good  time  of  it ! " 

Our  dark  home  had  a  more  miserable  aspect 
about  it  than  ever  when  we  got  back.  "Get 
right  up  to  bed,"  commanded  aunt,  "there's 
no  coal  to  waste.  You  can  keep  warm  there!" 
and  though  her  manner  of  saying  it  was  rough, 
yet  I  heard  a  catch  in  her  voice,  and  then  she 
burst  into  tears. 

"Never  mind,  Aunt  Millie,"  I  comforted, 
"uncle  will  write,  I  feel  sure!"  She  looked  up, 
startled,  and  seemed  ashamed  that  I  had  found 
her    crying    and    had    struck    her    thought    so. 

"Who's  whimpering?"  she  cried  fiercely. 
"Mind  your  business!"  But  I  noticed  that 
when  she  came  in  my  room  that  night  and 
thought  me  asleep,  when  in  reality  I  was  keeping 
my  ears  open  for  the  carols,  she  kissed  me  very 
tenderly  and  crept  away  silently. 

When  the  carols  first  strike  a  sleeping  ear, 
one  imagines  that  the  far-away  choirs  of  Heaven 
are  tuning  up  for  the  next  day's  chorus  before 

[44] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

God.  The  first  notes  set  such  dreams  a-spinning 
as  are  full  of  angels  and  ethereal  thoughts. 
Then  the  ear  becomes  aware  of  time  and  place, 
and  seizes  upon  the  human  note  that  may  be 
found  in  Christmas  carols  when  they  are  sung 
by  mill  people  at  midnight  in  winter  weather. 
Then  the  ear  begins  to  distinguish  between  this 
voice  and  that,  and  to  follow  the  bass  that 
tumbles  up  and  down  through  the  air.  Then 
there  is  a  great  crescendo  when  the  singers  are 
right  under  one's  window,  and  the  words  float 
into  the  chamber,  each  one  winged  with  homely, 
human  tenderness  and  love.  So  I  was  awakened 
by  the  carol  singers  that  Christmas  night.  The 
first  tune  sung  for  us  was,  "  Christians  Awake," 
and  when  its  three  verses  had  awakened  us,  and 
we  had  gone  to  the  window  to  look  down  on  the 
group,  "Hark!  the  Herald  Angels  Sing,"  was 
followed  by  a  soaring  adaptation  of  Coronation. 
It  was  a  group  of  about  fifteen.  There  were 
Old  Bill  Scroggs  with  his  concertina,  Harry 
Mills  with  his  'cello,  and  Erwind  Nichols  with 
his  flute.  Torvey  was  there,  though  he  could 
not  sing.  He  carried  the  lantern,  caught  the 
money  that  was  dropped  into  his  hat  from  the 
windows,  and  kept  the  young  men  and  women 
from  too  much  chattering  as  they  approached 
the  different  stands.  When  they  had  finished 
their  anthems,  aunt  called   from  the   window, 

[45] 


THROUGH    THE  MILL 

"Happy  Christmas  good  folks.  It  was  kind 
of  you  to  remember  us  so.  It's  real  good." 
Old  Torvey  answered  back,  "Merry  Christmas, 
Mrs.  Brindin.  We  must  get  along."  Then 
the  crowd  sent  up  a  confused  "Merry  Christ- 
mas," and  passed  on. 

Then  it  was  back  to  bed  again  to  sleep  until 
awakened  by  an  unnatural  pounding  on  our  door 
below.  "What  is  it,  aunt?"  I  cried.  "I  don't 
know,"  she  answered.  "Put  on  your  clothes  and 
get  down  before  they  break  in  the  door!"  I 
dressed  hurriedly,  inserted  the  massive  iron  key 
in  the  lock,  gave  it  a  turn  only  to  have  the  door 
thrust  open  wide  by  Old  Torvey,  who  cried 
excitedly,  as  he  waved  a  letter  in  the  air,  "It's 
from  Hammerica,  from  him!" 

My  aunt  ran  down  at  that,  partly  dressed, 
and  screamed  in  her  excitement.  With  flutter- 
ing, nervous  fingers  she  tore  open  the  envelope, 
and  examined  the  contents  in  a  breathless  minute. 

"Stanwood  sent  it,"  she  laughed,  "there's 
tickets  for  America  and  a  money  order  for  five 
pounds!"  and  then  she  gave  in  to  a  hysterical 
relapse  which  required  the  calling  in  of  the  green- 
grocer's wife.     It  was  a  Merry  Christmas! 


[46] 


Chapter  II L     My  Schoolmates 
Teach  me  American 


Chapter    III.     My   Schoolmates 
'Teach  me  American 

IT  was  an  extraordinary  excuse  that  Uncle 
Stan  wood  gave  for  his  neglect  of  us.  He 
disposed  of  the  matter  by  saying,  in  his 
Christmas  letter,  "I  was  so  busy  and  so 
hard  put  to  that  I  had  no  heart  to  write 
till  I  had  gathered  enough  money  to  send  for 
you.     I  know  it  must  have  worried  you." 

His  steamship  tickets,  however,  had  suddenly 
put  us  in  the  limelight  in  the  town.  "The 
Brindins  are  going  over!"  was  the  word  that 
passed  around.  I  can  imagine  no  more  perfect 
fame  than  the  United  States  had  gained  in  the 
minds  of  the  men  and  women  of  our  little  town. 
America  was  conceived  as  the  center  of  human 
desire,  the  pivot  of  worldly  wealth,  the  mirror 
of  a  blissful  paradise.  If  we  had  fallen  heirs  to 
peerages  or  had  been  called  to  Victoria's  court, 
it  is  doubtful  if  more  out-and-out  respect  would 
have  been  showered  on  us  than  was  ours  when 
it  was  known  that  we  were  going  to  the  "States." 
The  impression  prevailed  that  in  America 
the  shabbiest  pauper  gets  a  coat  of  gold.     During 

[49] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

the  packing,  when  the  neighbors  dropped  in  while 
Mrs.  Girion  made  a  hot  brew  of  porter  and  passed 
it  around  to  the  visitors  and  the  workers,  an 
America  was  constructed  for  us  rivaling  the  most 
extravagant  fairy-tale  ever  told  by  Grimm. 

"Yis,"  chattered  Old  Scroggs,  "they's  wunner- 
ful  likely  things  over  theer  in  Hammerica,  I'm 
told.  I  heer's  'at  they  spends  all  ther  coppers 
for  toffy  and  such  like  morsels,  havin'  goold  a 
plenty  —  real  goold!     Loads  o'  it,  they  saay!" 

"That's  so,"  put  in  Maggie,  our  next-door 
neighbor.  "Everybody  has  a  chance,  too. 
Double  wages  for  very  little  work.  All  sorts  of 
apples  and  good  things  to  eat.  Fine  roads,  too, 
and  everybody  on  cycles;  they're  so  cheap  out 
there.  They  say  the  sun  is  always  out,  too, 
and  not  much  rain!" 

In  somebody's  memory  there  lingered  tradi- 
tions brought  from  America  by  a  visitor  from 
that  country.  Besides  these  traditions,  which 
had  to  do  with  "gold,"  "paradise,"  and  "easy 
work,"  there  were  a  half  a  dozen  Yankee  words 
which  we  dearly  loved  to  prate,  as  if  by  so  doing 
we  had  at  least  a  little  fellowship  with  the  won- 
derful country.  In  the  school-yard  my  fellows 
drilled  me  on  these  words,  Billy  Hurd  saying, 
"Now,  Al,  them  Yankees  alius  talk  through  the 
nose,  like  this,"  and  he  illustrated  by  a  tinpan- 
ish,  nasal  tone  that  resembled  the  twang  of  a 

[50] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

tight  piano  wire.  "Now,  if  you're  going  to  be 
American,  talk  like  that,  it's  real  Yankee.  Now 
let's  see  you  try  the  word,  "Candy,"  which  is 
what  they  call  toffy  over  there.  Only  don't 
forget  to  talk  through  the  nose  like  I  did." 

So  I  dug  my  hands  deep  in  my  pockets, 
"cocked  my  jib,"  as  we  called  looking  pert,  and 
drawled  out  in  most  exaggerated  form,  "Saay, 
Ha'nt,want  tew  buy  teow  cents  wuth  of  kaandy?" 

"That's  just  like  Yankee,"  complimented 
Billy.  So  I  went  home,  called  my  aunt's  atten- 
tion to  what  I  was  going  to  do,  and  repeated  the 
sentence,  much  to  her  delight. 

"That's  right,  Al,"  she  said,  "learn  all  the 
American  you  can,  it  will  help  out  when  we  get 
there!" 

Filled  with  incidents  like  these,  the  days  of 
our  English  lingering  rapidly  drew  to  an  end, 
and  every  thought  in  my  mind  had  an  ocean 
steamship  at  the  end  of  it.  The  neighbors  made 
it  a  "time  of  tender  gloom,"  for  it  could  be 
nothing  else  to  a  mature  person,  this  taking  up 
of  the  Brindin  family  history  by  the  root  for 
transplantation,  this  breaking  off  of  intimate 
relationships  which,  through  blood,  reached 
back  into  misty  centuries.  Then,  too,  there 
was  the  element  of  adventure,  of  risk,  for  we 
little  knew  what  prospects  were  in  store  for  us 
in  that  strange  land :  what  would  be  the  measure 

[51] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

of  our  reward  for  going  there.  The  neighbors 
were  very  solemn,  but  the  strange  thing  about 
it  lay  in  the  fact  that  there  was  not  one,  insular 
as  the  British  are  heralded,  who  thought  that 
the  proposed  trip  should  not  be  taken! 

Finally  we  came  to  the  farewells  and  I  made 
mine  very  concrete.  As  it  was  clearly  under- 
stood that  everybody  who  went  to  America 
attained  great  wealth,  I  told  Clara  Chidwick  that 
I  would  send  her  a  fine  gold  watch,  and  when 
her  sister  Eline  cried  with  envy,  I  vowed  to  send 
her  a  diamond  brooch.  Harry  Lomick  went  off 
with  the  promise  of  five  new  American  dollars, 
Jimmy  Hedding  was  consoled  with  the  promise 
of  two  cases  of  American  "  candy ,"  while  Chaddy 
Ashworth  vowed  eternal  friendship  when  I 
promised  him  a  barrel  of  American  apples,  and, 
on  the  strength  of  that,  as  my  dearest  friend, 
we  mutually  promised  to  marry  sisters,  to  keep 
house  next  door  to  one  another  when  we  grew 
up,  and  to  share  whatever  good  fortune  might 
come  to  us  in  the  shape  of  money! 

Quite  a  body-guard  of  friends  saw  us  off  at 
the  station.  "Good  luck  to  you!"  was  the  pre- 
vailing cry,  as  we  sat  in  our  compartment  waiting 
for  the  train  to  start  for  Liverpool.  Then  the 
guard  shouted,  "All  aboard!"  and  we  were  in 
the  first,  exciting  stage  of  our  great  adventure. 

I  settled  myself  back  against  the  leather  back 
[52] 


When  the  Train  Started  for  Liverpool,  I  Counted  my  Pennies  while 
my  Aunt  Wept  Bitterly 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

of  the  seat  wondering  why  my  aunt  was  crying 
so,  and  then  I  began  to  count  the  pennies  with 
which  I  planned  to  purchase  some  oranges  in 
Liverpool. 

Our  night  in  Liverpool,  our  last  night  on 
English  soil,  is  summed  up  in  a  memory  of  a 
cheap  hotel,  a  stuffy  room,  and  a  breakfast  on 
an  uncountable  number  of  hard-boiled  eggs. 
In  the  morning,  early,  we  left  that  place  and  were 
taken  on  a  tram-car  to  the  dock.  There  I  did 
purchase  some  oranges  from  an  old  witch  of  an 
orange  woman,  big  football  oranges,  which  when 
peeled  were  small  enough,  for  they  had  been 
boiled  to  thicken  the  peel,  so  Aunt  said. 

On  the  steerage  deck  we  were  jostled  by  Jews 
with  their  bedding  and  food  supplies.  At  ten 
o'clock,  after  we  had  stood  in  the  vaccination 
line,  the  ship  sailed  from  the  dock,  and  I  leaned 
over  the  side  watching  the  fluttering  handker- 
chiefs fade,  as  a  snow  flurry  fades.  Then  the 
tugs  left  us  alone  on  the  great,  bottle-green  deep. 
There  was  a  band  in  my  heart  playing,  "I'm 
going  to  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of 
the  brave!" 

When  one  makes  a  blend  of  bilge- water,  new 
paint,  the  odor  of  raw  onions,  by  confining  them 
in  an  unventilated  space  under  deck,  and  adds 
to  that  blend  the  cries  of  ill-cared-for  babies, 
the  swearing  of  vulgar  women,  and  the  complain- 

[53] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

ing  whine  of  sickly  children,  one  knows  what  the 
steerage  on  the  old  "Alaska"  was  to  me.  The 
Jews  owned  the  warm,  windswept  deck,  where 
they  sat  all  day  on  the  tins  which  covered  the 
steam-pipes,  and  munched  their  raw  fish,  black 
bread,  and  flavored  the  salt  air  with  the  doubtful 
odor  of  juicy  onions.  I  heard  the  English  for- 
swear the  bearded  tribe,  denounce  them  for 
unbelievers,  sniff  at  the  mention  of  the  food  they 
ate;  but  after  all,  the  English  had  the  wrong 
end  of  the  stick;  they  had  to  stay  below  deck 
most  of  the  time,  and  sicken  themselves  with  the 
poor,  unwholesome  fare  provided  by  the  ship. 

My  aunt  said  to  me,  one  day,  "Al,  I'd  give 
the  world  for  one  of  them  raw  onions  that  the 
Jews  eat.  They're  Spanish  onions,  too,  that 
makes  it  all  the  more  aggravating." 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  them  for  a  piece  of  one?  " 
I  inquired  innocently. 

"What,"  she  sniffed,  "ask  a  Jew?  Never!" 
But  when  I  begged  one  from  a  Jew  boy,  she  ate 
it  eagerly  enough. 

The  height  of  romance  for  me,  however,  was 
in  the  person  of  Joe,  a  real  stowaway.  He  was 
found  on  the  second  day  out,  and  was  given  the 
task  of  peeling  the  steerage  potatoes,  a  task  that 
kept  him  busy  enough  throughout  the  day.  My 
mouth  went  open  to  its  full  extent,  when,  after 
helping  him  with  his  potatoes,  he  would  reward 

[54] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

me  by  paring  off  thick  slices  of  callouse  from  his 
palms.  Joe  said  to  me,  "Never  mind,  lad,  if 
I  work  hard  they'll  sure  land  me  in  Boston  when 
we  arrive.  I'm  going  to  wark  hard  so  they'll 
like  me.     I  do  want  to  go  to  the  States!" 

In  the  women's  cabins,  where  I  had  my  berth, 
they  held  evening  concerts  of  a  very  decided 
pathetic  kind.  Like  minor  tunes,  they  always 
ended  in  a  mournful  wailing;  for  many  of  the 
women  knew  tragedies  at  first  hand,  and  were 
in  the  midst  of  tragedy,  so  that  their  songs  and 
humors  were  bound  to  be  colored  by  despair. 
Carrie  Bess,  a  stout  woman  whose  white  neck 
was  crumpled  in  folds  like  a  washboard,  had  wit 
enough  to  change  the  somberness  of  a  morgue. 
She  was  usually  the  presiding  officer  in  charge 
of  the  concerts.  She  was  on  her  way  to  rejoin 
her  husband,  though  she  did  not  know  where  he 
was,  but  she  said,  "I'll  get  on  the  train  and  have 
it  stop  in  Texas  where  Jek  (Jack)  is."  And 
with  this  indefinite  optimism  she  threw  care  to 
the  winds  and  frolicked.  She  would  throw 
herself  astride  a  chair,  wink  at  us  all,  open  her 
mouth  like  a  colored  minstrel,  and  sing  lustily, 

"It's  very  hard  to  see  a  girl 
Sitting  on  a  young  man's  knee. 
If  I  only  had  the  man  I  love, 
What  a 'apy  girl  I'd  be!" 
[55] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

Then,  when  the  program  had  been  gone  through, 
with  the  oft-repeated  favorites,  like  Carrie  Bess' 
"It's  Very  Hard,"  the  concert  would  always 
close  with  an  old  sea  song  that  somebody  had 
introduced,  a  song  which,  as  I  lay  in  my  berth 
and  sleepily  heard  it  sung  under  those  miserable 
swinging  lamps,  amid  the  vitiated  atmosphere 
of  the  cabin,  and  with  the  sea  sounds,  wind, 
splash  of  waves,  and  hissing  steam,  summed  up 
all  the  miserable  spirit  of  isolation  on  a  great 
ocean : 

"Jack  was  the  best  in  the  band, 
Wrecked  while  in  sight  of  the  land, 
If  he  ever  comes  back,  my  sailor  boy,  Jack, 
I'll  give  him  a  welcome  home!" 

When  the  numbered  sails  of  pilots  hove  in 
sight,  and  the  lightships,  guarding  hidden  shoals 
with  their  beacon  masts,  were  passed,  the  steerage 
began  to  get  ready  for  its  entrance  in  the  land 
of  dreams.  The  song  went  up>  every  throat 
joining  in: 

"  Oh,  we're  going  to  the  land  where  they  pave 
the  streets  with  money,  la,  di,  da,  la,  di,  da!" 

Finally  we  sighted  a  golden  band  in  the  dis- 
tance, a  true  promise  of  what  we  expected 
America  to  be.  It  was  Nantasket  Beach.  That 
made  us  put  on  our  Sunday  clothes,  tie  up  our 
goods,  and  assemble  at  the  rail  to  catch  a  further 

[56] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

glimpse  of  the  great  paradise.  An  American 
woman  gave  me  a  cent,  the  first  bit  of  American 
money  my  fingers  ever  touched. 

Then  the  black  sheds,  the  harbor  craft,  and  the 
white  handkerchiefs  came  into  view.  I  strained 
an  eager,  flushing  face  in  an  effort  to  place  Uncle 
Stanwood,  but  I  could  not  find  him. 

Nearly  all  the  passengers  had  left  in  company 
with  friends,  but  my  aunt  and  I  had  to  stay  on 
board  in  instant  fear  of  having  to  return  to 
England,  for  uncle  was  not  there  to  meet  us. 
I  saw  poor  Joe,  the  stowaway,  in  chains,  waiting 
to  be  examined  by  the  authorities  for  his  "crime." 
I  felt  fully  as  miserable  as  he,  when  I  whispered 
to  him,  "poor  Joe!" 

After  many  hours  uncle  did  arrive,  and  we 
had  permission  to  land  in  America.  I  confess 
that  I  looked  eagerly  for  the  gold-paved  streets, 
but  the  Assay  Office  could  not  have  extracted 
the  merest  pin-head  from  the  muddy  back  street 
we  rode  through  in  a  jolting  team  of  some  sort. 
I  saw  a  black-faced  man,  and  cried  for  fear.  I 
had  a  view  of  a  Chinaman,  with  a  pigtail,  and  I 
drew  back  from  him  until  uncle  said,  "You'll 
see  lots  of  them  here,  Al,  so  get  used  to  it." 
When  I  sat  in  the  station,  waiting  for  the  train, 
I  spent  my  first  American  money  in  America. 
I  purchased  a  delectable,  somewhat  black, 
banana ! 

[57] 


Chapter  IV.     I  pick  up  a  hand- 
ful  of  America^   make  an 
American  cap,  whip  a  Yan- 
kee, and  march  home 
whistling  "Yankee 
Doodle" 


Chapter  IV.  I  pick  up  a  hand- 
ful  of  America,  make  an  Ameri- 
can cap^  whip  a  Yankee^  and 
march  home  whistling,  "Yankee 
Doodle" 

THE  full  revealing  of  the  America  of  my 
dreams  did  not  come  until  the 
following  morning.  Docks,  back 
streets,  stations,  and  the  smoky, 
dusty  interiors  of  cars,  were  all  I 
had  seen  the  previous  night.  When  we  had 
arrived  in  New  Bedford,  I  heard  the  noise  of  a 
great  city,  but  I  had  been  so  stupid  with  excite- 
ment and  weariness  that  no  heed  had  been  paid 
to  passing  scenes.  I  had  gone  to  bed  in  a  semi- 
conscious state  in  the  boarding-house  where 
Uncle  Stanwood  made  his  home.  But  in  the 
morning,  after  I  realized  that  I  was  in  America, 
that  it  was  an  American  bed  on  which  I  slept, 
that  the  wall-paper  was  American,  and  that  the 

[61] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

window-blind,  much  crumpled  and  cracked,  over 
the  window,  was  the  great  drop-curtain  which, 
drawn  to  its  full  height,  would  show  me  a  stage, 
set  with  a  glitter  of  things  wondrous  to  the 
sight,  I  exclaimed  aloud,  "Chaddy,  oh,  Chaddy, 
I'm  in  America!" 

Just  as  one  hesitates  with  esthetic  dreaming 
over  a  jewel  hidden  in  a  leaden  casket,  getting 
as  much  joy  from  anticipation  as  possible,  so  I 
speculated  in  that  dingy  room  before  I  pulled 
up  the  curtain.  What  should  I  see?  Trees 
with  trunks  of  chrysolites,  with  all  the  jewels  of 
Aladdin's  cave  dripping  from  their  boughs, 
streets  paved  with  gold,  people  dressed  like 
lords?  All,  all  outside,  with  only  that  crumpled 
blind  between  me  and  them?  Thus,  with  an 
inflamed  anticipation  and  a  magnified  dream 
fancy,  I  hurried  across  the  room,  and  let  the 
window  blind  snap  out  of  my  nervous  clutch 
clear  to  the  top.  I  pressed  my  eyes  close  to  the 
glass,  and  there  —  Oh,  the  breaking-down  of 
dreams,  the  disillusionment  of  the  deluded! 
There  was  a  glaring  sun  staring  down  on  a  duck- 
yard:  a  magnified  duck-yard,  bare  of  grass,  of 
shrubs,  criss-crossed  with  clothes-lines,  littered 
with  ashes,  refuse,  and  papers,  with  flapping 
mill  clothes,  and  great  duck-house;  drab  tene- 
ments, all  alike,  and  back  of  them  the  bleak 
brick  walls  of  a  cotton  mill! 

[62] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

But  never  mind,  I  was  in  America!  Chaddy 
was  not.  The  scene  I  had  looked  upon  was 
disheartening,  somewhat  like  a  sudden  blow  in 
the  face,  for  those  box-like,  wooden  duck-houses 
were  not  to  be  compared  with  the  ivy-covered, 
romantic  rows  of  Hadfield  with  their  flower- 
gardens,  arches,  and  slate  roofs!  But  I  was  in 
America,  anyway! 

We  had  the  breakfast-table  to  ourselves, 
uncle,  aunt,  and  myself,  for  the  boarders  had 
gone  to  work  long  ago,  and  this  was  our  holiday, 
our  first  American  day!  What  are  those  round 
golden  things  with  holes  in?  Doughnuts?  They 
don't  grow  on  trees,  do  they?  Baked?  Isn't  it 
funny  they  call  them  "nuts? "  I  don't  taste  any 
nut  flavor  to  them.  But  I  could  not  linger  too 
long  at  the  table  with  all  America  waiting  to  be 
explored. 

"Don't  gulp  down  things  like  that,"  warned 
aunt,  "you'll  be  sick,  proper  sick.  Chew  your 
food!" 

"I  want  to  go  out  and  see  America,  aunt!" 

"All  right,"  she  assented.  "Go  on  out,  but 
mind  the  American  lads,  now!" 

So  I  left  the  house,  and  the  first  act  done  when 
I  reached  the  gate  had  in  it,  crystallized,  the  deep 
reverence  an  alien  feels  for  America.  I  bent 
down  and  picked  up  a  handful  of  dirt.  I  wanted 
to  feel  America. 

[63] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

Then  I  walked  down  the  street  of  tenements, 
looking  for  an  outlet  from  them,  and  hoping  to 
get  away  from  the  shadow  of  the  mill.  At  last 
the  tenements  were  passed,  and  I  saw  some  vacant 
building  lots,  with  huge,  gaudy  sign  boards  star- 
ing from  them.  It  was  here  that  I  heard  a  voice 
from  across  the  road,  shouting  in  broad  derision, 
"Strike  him!"  A  group  of  school  boys  were 
pointing  at  me.  In  the  hasty  survey  I  gave 
them,  I  noted  that  they  all  wore  round  caps. 
Mine  had  a  shining  visor  on  it.  I  hurried  along 
behind  one  of  those  huge  signs,  took  out  my 
pocket  knife,  and  slashed  off  the  visor.  Immedi- 
ately I  felt  Americanized.  I  went  forth  with 
some  show  of  a  swagger,  for  I  thought  that  now, 
wearing  a  round  cap,  everybody  would  take  me 
for  a  full-fledged  American! 

But  it  was  not  so.  Under  a  railway  viaduct, 
where  the  shadows  were  thick  and  cool,  I  was 
met  by  a  lad  of  my  own  age,  but  with  twenty 
times  more  swagger  and  pertness  showing  on 
him.  When  he  saw  me,  he  frowned  at  first, 
then,  grinning  insultingly,  he  came  to  within 
two  inches  of  me,  planted  himself  belligerently, 
and  mocked,  "  'Ello,  Green'orn!  Just  come 
acrost,  'ast?"  Whereat,  knowing  full  well  that 
he  was  heaping  slander  on  my  mother  speech,  I 
threw  caution  to  the  winds,  hurled  myself  at 
him,  and  was  soon  engaged  in  tense  battle.     The 

[64] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

fight  did  not  last  long,  for,  keeping  up  the  English 
schoolboy  tradition,  I  not  only  pounded  with 
clenched  fists,  but  freely  used  my  feet  —  a  com- 
bination that  put  to  nought  whatever  pugilistic 
skill  my  antagonist  possessed. 

"No  fair,  usin'  feet,"  he  complained,  as  he 
nursed  a  bruised  shin  and  hobbled  off,  "Green- 
orn! 

That  word,  "Greenhorn,"  startled  me.  I 
cautiously  felt  of  my  head,  for  it  flashed  into  my 
mind  that  it  was  very  possible,  in  this  magic 
land,  that  English  people  grew  green  horns 
immediately  upon  arrival;  but  I  was  consoled 
to  find  that  none  had  sprouted  overnight. 

I  continued  my  exploration,  and  found  myself 
surrounded  on  every  hand  by  mills,  tenements, 
and  shops.  The  streets  were  very  dirty:  the 
whole  scene  was  as  squalid  as  could  be.  Yet, 
the  thought  kept  comforting  me,  I  was  in 
America.  I  returned  home,  covered  with  bur- 
dock burrs,  arranged  in  the  form  of  epaulets, 
stripes,  and  soldier  buttons,  whistling  with  gusto 
a  shrill  rendition  of  "Yankee  Doodle."  So 
ended  my  first  morning  as  an  American. 


[65] 


Chapter  V.     I  cannot  become  a 

President \  but  I  can  go  to  the 

Dumping  Grounds 


Chapter  V.  I  cannot  become  a 
President j  but  I  can  go  to  the 
Dumping  Grounds 

UrNCLE  and  aunt  went  out  that  after- 
noon. "We're  going  looking  for  a 
tenement,"  said  uncle.  "We'll  be 
back  by  supper  time,  Al.  Mind 
now,  and  not  get  into  mischief." 
They  were  gone  until  past  the  regular  supper 
hour,  and  I  waited  for  them  in  my  room.  WThen 
they  did  arrive,  uncle  seemed  very  much  excited, 
and  in  greeting  me  he  put  five  cents  in  my 
hand,  and  then  extracted  from  his  pocket  a 
handful  of  crisp,  baked  pieces  which  he  said  were 
"salted  crackers."  The  only  crackers  with 
which  I  was  acquainted  were  Chinese  crackers, 
which  we  exploded  on  Guy  Fawkes  day  in 
England. 

"Will  they  shoot  off?"  I  asked  him. 
"No,  they're  to  eat,"  he  answered.     "There's 
salt  on  them  to  make  you  eat  more,  too." 

"Where   do  you  get  them?"   was   my  next 
question. 

[69] 


THROUGH  THE   MILL 

"At  saloons,"  he  replied.  "When  you  get  a 
drink  of  beer,  they  have  these  near  to  make  you 
drink  more."  I  looked  up  startled,  and  sniffed 
the  breath  of  my  aunt,  who  stood  near,  nodding 
her  head  rapidly,  as  if  answering  the  questions  of 
a  Gatling  gun. 

"Why,"  I  gasped,  "you've  both  been  drink- 
ing !  Both  of  you ! "  Aunt  Millie  made  a  stroke 
at  my  head,  then  lurched  in  doing  it,  and  almost 
sprawled  to  the  floor. 

"What  if  we  have,  Impudence  ?"  she  snapped. 
"When  did  you  sit  in  judgment  o'er  us,  eh?" 

Then  my  uncle,  in  an  apologetic  tone,  broke 
in,  "There,  Al,  lad,  we  only  stopped  in  one  place; 
sort  of  celebration,  lad,  after  being  separated  so 
long.  Don't  say  anything  about  it,  lad.  I'll 
give  you  five  cents  more."  But  Aunt  Millie 
flew  into  a  terrible  rage.  "Don't  apologize, 
Stanwood.  Give  him  a  clout  i'  the  head,  and 
let  him  be  careful  what  he  says.  Drinkin',  eh? 
I  show  him,"  and  she  suddenly  swung  her  fist 
against  my  ear,  and  sent  me  stumbling  to  the 
floor.  At  that,  Uncle  Stanwood  rushed  at  her, 
although  he  was  lurching,  and  grasping  her  wrist, 
called,  "There,  Millie,  that's  enough."  That 
brought  on  an  altercation,  in  the  midst  of  which 
the  landlady  came  up,  and  said,  "Stop  that  noise, 
or  I'll  call  the  police.  I'll  give  you  another  day 
for  to  get  out  of  this.     I  keep   a  respectable 

[70] 


THROUGH  THE   MILL 

house,  mind  you,  and  I  won't,  I  simply  won't 
have  drinking  taking  place  here.  The  boarders 
won't  stand  for  it!" 

"Oh,  you  insultin'  vixin,  you!"  screamed 
aunt,  brandishing  her  arms  in  the  air  with 
savage  fury,  "Don't  you  go  to  sittin'  on  the 
seat  of  virtue  like  that!  Didn't  I  see  the  beer 
man  call  in  your  kitchen  this  morning?  You 
hypocrite,  you!" 

"Oh,"  screamed  the  landlady,  leaving  the 
room,  "let  me  hear  one  more  sound  and  in  comes 
the  police.     I  won't  stand  it!" 

"There,"  cried  Aunt  Millie,  consoled  by  the 
landlady's  departure,  "I  knew  that  would  bring 
her.  Now,  Stanwood,  let's  finish  that  little 
bottle  before  bedtime.  This  is  our  first  day  in 
America."  Uncle  Stanwood  pulled  from  his 
pocket  a  flask  of  whisky,  and  I  left  them  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed  drinking  from  it. 

The  next  morning  Uncle  Stanwood  went  to 
the  mill  where  he  was  working,  and  told  the  over- 
seer that  he  must  have  another  day  off  in  which 
to  get  a  tenement  and  get  settled.  Then  he  and 
aunt  found  a  tidy  house  just  outside  the  blocks 
of  duck  houses,  and,  after  renting  it,  went  to  the 
shopping  center,  where  they  chose  a  complete 
housekeeping  outfit  and  made  the  terms  of  pay- 
ment, —  "  One  Dollar  Down  and  a  Dollar  a  Week." 
That  plunged  us  into  debt  right  off,  and  I  later 

[71] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

learned  that  even  our  steamship  tickets  had  been 
purchased  from  an  agency  on  somewhat  the  same 
terms.  The  landlady  had  told  Aunt  Millie  that 
my  uncle  had  been  a  steady  drinker  since  his 
stay  with  her,  shortly  after  his  arrival  in  the 
United  States. 

"That  accounts  for  his  having  so  little  money, 
then,"  commented  my  aunt.  "I  fail  to  see 
where  he's  making  a  much  better  man  of  him- 
self than  he  was  across  the  water." 

At  last  Aunt  Millie  had  the  satisfaction  of 
"setting  up  American  housekeeping,"  as  she 
termed  it.  But  she  did  not  find  much  romance 
in  this  new  kind  of  housekeeping. 

"See  that  homely  thing,"  she  complained,  in- 
dicating the  stove,  "Give  me  that  old  fireplace 
and  the  stone  kitchen  floor!  I've  a  good  mind 
to  pack  my  tin  box  and  take  the  next  boat," 
she  half  cried,  throughout  those  first  days  of 
Americanization.  "I  don't,  for  the  life  of  me,  see 
whatever  brought  me  over  here  to  this  forsaken 
place!" 

I  had  to  share  in  the  blunders  that  were  made. 
I  was  heartily  laughed  at  by  the  produce  pedler 
when  I  asked  hiin  for  "two  pounds  of  potatoes." 
The  yeast-cake  man  looked  at  me  blankly  when 
I  asked  for  "a  penny's  worth  of  barm."  Aunt 
Millie  did  not  see  how  she  was  ever  going  to 
make  a  family  baking  from  a  piece  of  yeast  an 

[72] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

inch  square,  when  she  had  been  wont  to  put  in 
the  same  amount  of  flour  a  handful  of  brewer's 
barm.  On  Sunday  morning  the  baker's  cart 
came  with  hot  pots  of  beans  crested  with  burnt 
lumps  of  pork.  We  had  to  learn  to  eat  beans 
and  brown  bread. 

"I'm  sure,"  said  my  aunt  when  I  brought 
home  a  five-cent  loaf,  "that  they  rise  the  dough 
with  potatoes;  its  so  light  and  like  dried  chips!" 
For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  was  surfeited  with 
pastry.  I  bought  several  square  inches  of 
frosted  cake  from  the  baker  for  five  cents,  and 
ate  it  in  place  of  the  substantial  food  I  had  lived 
on  in  England.  In  place  of  making  meals,  when 
she  wanted  to  visit  with  the  neighbors,  my  aunt 
would  give  me  five  cents  to  spend  on  anything 
I  liked. 

The  springtime  was  full  on,  and  I  found  much 
pleasure  in  mixing  with  the  tenement  boys  and 
girls,  after  school  hours.  While  the  schools  were 
in  session,  however,  I  had  a  lonely  time  of  it. 
But  it  was  on  those  steps  that  I  began  to  form 
a  conception  of  what  it  means  to  be  an  American. 
It  meant  to  me,  then,  the  ability  to  speak  slang, 
to  be  impertinent  to  adults,  calling  one's  father, 
"Old  Man,"  one's  mother,  "My  Old  Woman," 
and  one's  friend,  "that  guy."  The  whole  con- 
ception rounded  out,  however,  in  the  hope  of 
some  day  becoming  the  President  of  The  United 

[73] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

States,  and  I  was  considerably  chagrined,  and 
my  coming  to  America  seemed  a  fruitless  task, 
when  I  learned,  from  Minnie  Helphin,  a  German 
girl,  that  "You  got  for  to  be  borned  into  the 
United  States,  for  to  be  like  us  'Mericans,  to  be 
Preser-dent.  My  brudder,  Hermann,  him  for 
to  be  Preser-dent,  sometimes." 

I  grew  tired  of  being  alone  while  the  others 
went  to  school,  so  that  one  day,  in  spite  of  the 
warning  that  the  "truant  officer"  might  get 
hold  of  me,  I  went  to  one  of  the  school  yards, 
and,  through  the  iron  fence,  watched  all  my 
friends  at  play,  and  immediately  I  said  to  my- 
self, "You  ought  to  go,  too!"  That  night  I 
said  to  my  aunt,  at  the  supper  table,  "I  want  to 
go  to  an  American  school."  She  looked  at  me 
with  a  frown. 

"  School,  is  it?    Who  said  so,  the  government?  " 

"No,"  I  answered,  trembling  in  fear  of  her, 
"it  wasn't  the  government.  I  get  lonely  while 
they  are  at  school.     That's  why  I  want  to  go." 

She  laughed,  "Oh,  we'll  soon  find  something 
for  you  to  do  more  profitable  than  going  to 
school.  Go  to  school !  What  are  you  bothering 
me  about  school  for?  Education's  only  for 
them  that  are  learning  to  be  gentlemen.  You're 
a  poor  lad,  and  must  be  thinking  more  about 
getting  to  work.  Here  we  are,  head  and  ears 
in  debt!     Up  to  our  neck  in  it,  right  away!    We 

[74] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

owe  for  the  furniture.  That  chair  you're  sitting 
on  isn't  ours.  That  stove  isn't  paid  for.  Noth- 
ing 's  ours,  hardly  the  clothes  on  our  backs. 
How  we  are  to  pay  for  it  all,  gets  me.  You've 
got  to  knuckle  down  with  a  will,  young  man, 
and  help  us  out  of  the  hole  we're  in!" 

"But  the  lad's  got  to  have  schooling,  Millie!" 
protested  my  uncle.  She  turned  upon  him  with 
flashing  eyes,  and,  half -crying  with  sudden  anger, 
shouted  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  "Listen  to  that! 
I'd  like  to  know  what  you  have  to  strike  in  this 
for.  It's  you  and  your  drinking's  brought  us  to 
this  pitch.  There  you  can  sit,  while  we  are 
head  and  ears  in  debt,  nothing  to  call  our  own, 
and  propose  that  this  Impudent  go  to  school. 
He's  got  to  go  out  on  the  street  with  the  McNulty 
lads  and  get  wood  and  coal.  That  will  be  some- 
thing towards  helping  out.  Never  mind  about 
school  till  the  government  makes  him  go.  That 
will  be  plenty  of  time  for  SCHOOL!" 

"Picking  wood  and  coal?"  I  asked,  with  in- 
terest in  this  new  scheme  to  keep  me  busy. 

"Yes,"  she  explained.  "I  was  in  McNulty's 
this  afternoon,  and  Mrs.  McNulty  was  telling 
me  that  she's  entirely  kept  in  coal  and  wood  by 
her  two  lads,  Pat  and  Tim.  Seems  to  me  that 
you  might  make  yourself  useful  like  that,  too, 
instead  of  bothering  your  little  brain  about 
getting  learning." 

[75] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

"I  don't  like  to  have  him  out  on  the  street," 
protested  Uncle,  somewhat  feebly. 

"It's  not  a  case  of  like  or  dislike,  this  time," 
said  Aunt  Millie,  "it's  a  case  of  got  to.  You 
don't  bring  in  enough  to  pay  up  everything,  so 
you  shut  up!  You  and  your  fifteen  dollars  won't 
make  creation,  not  a  bit!  Get  off  out  of  this. 
Go  to  the  toy  store,  and  get  a  cart  or  some- 
thing for  Al  to  get  wood  in,  instead  of  sitting 
there  telling  me  what  is  right  and  what  is 
wrong.  Go  on;  I'm  going  to  send  him  out  in 
the  morning." 

Uncle  took  me  with  him  to  the  toy-store,  where 
I  helped  select  an  express  wagon,  with  tin  rims, 
front  wheels  that  turned  this  way  and  that,  and 
the  name,  "Champion,"  in  red  letters  on  its 
sides.  Uncle  rode  me  home  in  it,  and  seemed  to 
enjoy  the  drag  it  gave  him  up  hill.  "There," 
he  whispered  when  we  reached  our  door,  "don't 
tell  your  aunt  that  I  rode  you.  She  might  not 
like  it,  Al,  lad!" 

The  next  morning  Pat  and  Tim  called  at  the 
house  for  me.  They  had  been  generously  kept 
at  home  that  day  to  show  me  their  "pickings." 
I  felt  a  trifle  puffed  up  over  the  gaudy  appearance 
of  my  new  wagon,  for  my  companions'  was  a 
crude,  deep  box  with  odd  baby-carriage  wheels, 
and  it  was  named,  by  a  black  smudged  tar  sign, 
"The  Shamrock."     But  I  did  not  long  exult, 

[76] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

for  Tim,  a  little  undersized  fellow  of  fourteen, 
said,  manfully,  "Now,  Priddy,  if  we  shows  yer 
things,  yer  got  to  divvy  up,  see!" 

"What?"  I  asked. 

"Got  to  square  up,"  he  said,  and  with  no 
more  ado  he  placed  himself  in  my  new  wagon. 
When  we  were  out  of  sight  of  the  house,  Pat  gave 
him  the  handle  of  "The  Shamrock,"  and  placed 
himself  in  the  depths  of  that  dilapidated  wagon, 
and  I  was  told  to  "Drawr  us.  Yer  th'  hoss. 
See?" 

So  Pat  and  Tim  took  me  to  the  "pickings." 
In  our  excursions  we  visited  buildings  that  were 
in  the  process  of  reshingling,  when  we  piled  our 
wagons  to  abnormal  heights  with  the  dry,  mossy 
old  ones.  We  went  on  the  trail  of  fires,  where  we 
poked  among  the  fallen  timbers  for  half-burnt 
sticks.  There  were  skirmishes  in  the  vicinity  of 
coal-yards,  at  the  rear  of  the  sheds,  where, 
through  breaks  and  large,  yawning  cracks,  pieces 
of  coal  sometimes  dropped  through.  We  scouted 
on  the  trail  of  coal  wagons  through  cobbled,  jolt 
streets,  and  managed  to  pick  up  what  they  lost. 
We  adventured  on  dangerous  spurs  of  railroad 
track,  on  marshy  cinder  dumps  outside  mill 
fences,  and  to  the  city  dumping-grounds  for 
loads  of  cinders,  coal,  and  wood. 

After  a  washing  rainstorm,  in  the  night,  my 
aunt  would  say,  "Now,  Al,  there's  been  a  good 

[77] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

rain,  and  it  must  have  washed  the  dust  off  the 
clinkers  and  cinders  so  that  you  might  get  a  good 
bagful  of  cinders.  You'd  best  go  before  some- 
one else  gets  ahead  of  you."  True  enough,  I 
would  find  them  in  the  ash  heaps,  as  black  as 
seeds  in  a  watermelon,  the  half-burnt  coals,  which 
I  loaded  in  my  bushel  bag  and  carried  home  in 
my  wagon  at  five  cents  a  load.  If  I  returned 
with  my  bag  empty,  there  was  always  some 
drastic  form  of  punishment  given  me. 

Life  on  the  city  dumping-grounds  was  generally 
a  return  to  the  survival  of  the  fittest.  There 
was  exemplified  poverty  in  its  ugliest  aspect. 
The  Charles  street  dumps  were  miniature  Alps 
of  dusty  rubbish  rising  out  of  the  slimy  ooze  of 
a  pestiferous  and  stagnant  swamp,  in  which  slink- 
ing, monstrous  rats  burrowed,  where  clammy 
bullfrogs  gulped,  over  which  poisonous  flies 
hummed  on  summer  days,  and  from  which  arose 
an  overpowering,  gassy  nauseation.  On  a  windy 
day,  the  air  was  filled  by  a  whirling,  odorous  dust 
of  ashes.  It  stirred  every  heap  of  rubbish  into 
a  pungent  mass  of  rot.  When  the  Irishmen 
brought  the  two-horse  dump-carts,  and  swung 
their  load  on  the  heap,  every  dump-picker  was 
sure  to  be  smothered  in  a  cloud  of  choking  dust, 
as  sticks,  hoes,  rakes,  and  fingers,  in  mad  com- 
petition, sought  whatever  prize  of  rag,  bottle, 
wood,  or  cinder  came  in  sight.     This  was  the 

[78] 


Pat  and    Tim   Led    Me    to   the    Charles   Street   Dumping  Ground  — 
Which  Was  the  Neighborhood  Gehenna 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

neighborhood  Gehenna,  in  which  the  Portuguese, 
Irish,  and  Polish  dwellers  thereabouts  flung  all 
that  was  filthy,  spoiled,  and  odorous,  whether 
empty  cans,  ancient  fruit  and  vegetables,  rats 
from  traps,  or  the  corpses  of  pet  animals  or  birds. 

Pat,  Tim,  and  I,  in  our  search  for  fuel,  met 
quite  a  cosmopolitan  life  on  those  ash-hills. 
There  they  were,  up  to  their  knees  in  filth,  dig- 
ging in  desperation  and  competition,  with  hungry 
looks  and  hoarse,  selfish  growls,  like  a  wolf  pack 
rooting  in  a  carcass :  the  old  Jew,  with  his  hand- 
cart, the  Frenchwoman,  with  her  two-year  old 
girl;  the  Portuguese  girls  and  the  Irish  lads,  the 
English  and  the  American  pickers,  all  in  strife, 
clannish,  jealous,  pugilistic,  and  never  free  from 
the  strain  of  tragedy.  Pat  and  Tim  could  hold 
their  own,  as  they  were  well-trained  street 
fighters. 

"Git  on  yer  own  side,  Sheeny,"  Tim  used  to 
scream  to  the  venerable  Israelite;  "I'll  punch  yer 
in  the  plexus!"  and  without  a  word,  but  with  a 
cowed  look  of  the  eyes,  the  old  man  would  re- 
treat from  the  property  he  had  been  cunningly 
encroaching  upon.  Then  Tim's  commanding 
voice  could  be  heard,  "Say,  Geeser,  hand  over 
that  copper-bottomed  boiler  to  yer  uncle,  will 
yer,  or  I'll  smash  yer  phiz  in!"  But  when 
"Wallop"  Smitz  brought  his  rowdy  crowd  to 
the  dump,  it  was  like  an  invasion  of  the  "Huns." 

[79] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

We  were  driven  from  the  dump  in  dismay,  often 
with  our  clothes  torn  and  our  wagons  battered. 
And  oh,  what  prizes  of  the  dump!  Cracked 
plates,  cups  and  saucers,  tinware,  bric-a-brac, 
footwear,  clothing,  nursing-bottles  and  nipples, 
bottles  with  the  dregs  of  flavoring  extracts,  cod- 
liver  oil,  perfumes,  emulsions,  tonics,  poisons, 
antiseptics,  cordials,  decayed  fruit,  and  faded 
flowers!  These  were  seized  in  triumph,  taken 
home  in  glee,  and  no  doubt  used  in  faith.  There 
is  little  philosophy  in  poverty,  and  questions  of 
sanitation  and  prudence  come  in  the  stage  be- 
yond it.  "Only  bring  me  coal  and  wood,"  com- 
manded my  aunt,  in  regard  to  my  visits  to  the 
dumps,  but  I  managed  to  save  rubbers,  rags,  and 
metal,  as  a  side  product,  and  get  money  for  them 
from  the  old  Jew  junk-man. 


[80] 


Chapter  VI.     The  Luxurious 
Possibilities  of  the  Dollar- 
L)own-Dollar-a-  Week 
System  of  House- 
keeping 


Chapter  VL  The  Luxurious 
Possibilities  of  the  Dol/ar-Down- 
Dollar-a-  TVeek  System  of  House- 
keeping 

DURING  the  remainder  of  the  school 
year,  from  March  to  June,  no  public- 
school  officer  came  to  demand  my 
attendance  at  school. 

"Aren't  we  lucky?"  commented 
Aunt  Millie.  It  gives  you  such  a  chance  to  help 
out.  The  instalment  men  must  be  paid,  and  we 
need  every  cent.  It's  such  a  mercy  that  the  long 
holiday's  on.     It  gives  you  a  good  chance." 

By  this  time  I  had  added  to  my  activities  that 
of  carrying  my  uncle's  dinner  to  the  mill.  My 
aunt  always  considered  this  a  waste  of  time. 
"It  takes  Al  away  from  his  own  work,"  she 
would  remonstrate  with  my  uncle.  "If  he  has 
to  carry  your  dinner,  I  wish  he  would  take  it  in 
his  wagon  so  that  he  can  bring  back  what  coal 
and  wood  he  finds  on  the  street."     When  that 

[83] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

combination  was  in  effect,  she  was  mollified,  for 
I  managed  to  secure  a  load  of  fuel  almost  every 
day  in  my  journey  from  the  mill  to  the  house. 

This  was  the  first  cotton-mill  I  ever  entered. 
Every  part  of  it,  inside,  seemed  to  be  as  orderly 
as  were  the  rows  of  bricks  in  its  walls.  It  was  a 
new  mill.  Its  walls  were  red  and  white,  as  were 
the  iron  posts  that  reached  down  in  triple  rows 
through  the  length  of  it.  There  was  the  odor  of 
paint  everywhere.  The  machinery  seemed  set 
for  display,  it  shone  and  worked  so  smoothly. 
The  floor  of  the  mule  room,  where  uncle  worked, 
was  white  and  smooth.  The  long  alleys  at  the 
ends  of  the  mules  were  like  the  decks  of  a  ship. 
The  whirling,  lapping  belts  had  the  pungent  odor 
of  new  leather  about  them,  and  reminded  me  of 
the  smell  of  a  new  pair  of  shoes.  The  pulleys 
and  shaftings  gleamed  under  their  high  polish. 
Altogether  it  was  a  wonderful  sight  to  my  eyes, 
which,  for  some  time,  had  only  seen  dismal  tene- 
ments, dirty  streets,  and  drifting  ash  heaps. 

The  mill  was  trebly  attractive  on  chilly,  rainy 
days,  when  it  was  so  miserable  a  task  outside  to 
finger  among  soggy  ash  piles  for  coals  and  to  go 
splashing  barefooted  through  muddy  streets. 
At  such  times  it  was  always  a  relief  to  feel  the 
warm,  greasy  boards  of  the  mill  underneath  my 
feet,  and  to  have  my  body  warmed  by  the  great 
heat.      No  matter  how  it  rained  outside  with 

[84] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

the  rain-drops  splashing  lonesomely  against  the 
windows,  it  did  not  change  the  atmosphere  of 
the  mill  one  jot.  The  men  shouted  and  swore 
as  much  as  ever,  the  doffers  rode  like  whirlwinds 
on  their  trucks,  the  mules  creaked  on  the  change, 
the  belts  hummed  and  flapped  as  regularly  as 
ever. 

It  was  very  natural,  then,  that  I  should  grow 
to  like  the  mill  and  hate  the  coal  picking.  My 
uncle  gave  me  little  chores  to  do  while  he  ate  his 
dinner.  He  taught  me  how  to  start  and  stop 
a  mule;  how  to  clean  and  take  out  rollers;  how 
to  piece  broken  threads,  and  lift  up  small  cops. 
When  the  doffers  came  to  take  the  cops  off  the 
spindles,  I  learned  to  put  new  tubes  on  and  to 
press  them  in  place  at  the  bottom  of  the  spindles. 
I  found  it  easy  to  use  an  oil  can,  to  clean  the 
cotton  from  the  polished  doors  of  the  mules,  to 
take  out  empty  bobbins  of  cotton  rope,  and  put 
in  full  ones  to  give  a  new  supply  for  the  thread 
which  was  spun. 

I  became  so  valuable  a  helper  during  the  noon 
hour  that  my  uncle  persuaded  my  aunt  to  put 
in  some  dinner  for  me,  also,  so  that  I  could  eat 
it  with  him.  He  did  this  simply  because  he 
wanted  me  to  have  some  reward  for  my  work 
besides  the  fifteen  cents  a  week  he  gave  me.  So 
I  used  to  sit  with  him,  and  he  would  divide  a 
meat  pie  with  me,  let  me  drink  some  coffee  from 

[85] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

the  top  of  the  dinner  pail,  and  share  a  piece  of 
pudding.  There  was  always  a  bright  gleam  in 
his  eyes  as  he  watched  me  eat,  a  gleam  that  said 
as  plainly  as  words,  "It's  good  to  see  you  have 
a  good  time,  Al,  lad!" 

By  the  end  of  the  summer  I  was  so  familiar 
with  the  mill  that  I  wanted  to  spend  my  whole 
time  in  it.  I  had  watched  the  mill  boys,  some 
of  them  not  much  older  than  myself  —  and  I 
was  only  eleven  —  and  I  wanted  to  swagger  up 
and  down  the  alleys  like  them.  They  were 
lightly  clad  in  undershirt  and  overalls,  so  that 
in  their  bared  feet  they  could  run  without  slipping 
on  the  hot  floor.  They  were  working  for  wages, 
too,  and  took  home  a  pay  envelope  every  Satur- 
day. Just  think  of  going  home  every  Saturday, 
and  throwing  an  envelope  on  the  table  with  three 
dollars  in  it,  and  saying,  nonchalantly,  "Aunt, 
there's  my  wages.  Just  fork  over  my  thirty 
cents  spending  money.  I'm  going  to  see  the 
matinee  this  afternoon  at  the  theater.  It's 
'  Michael  Strogroff , '  and  they  say  there's  a  real 
fight  in  the  second  act  and  eight  changes  of 
scenery,  for  ten  cents.  They've  got  specialties 
between  the  acts,  too!" 

Other  temporal  considerations  entered  into 
this  desire  to  go  into  the  mill.  I  wanted  to  have 
a  dinner-pail  of  my  own,  with  a  whole  meat-pie 
in  it,  or  a  half-pound  of  round  steak  with  its 

[86] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

gravy  dripping  over  a  middle  of  mashed  potatoes 
with  milk  and  butter  in  them !  Then  there  were 
apple  dumplings  to  consider,  and  freedom  from 
coal  picking  and  the  dirty  life  on  the  dumps. 
All  in  all,  I  knew  it  would  be  an  excellent  ex- 
change, if  possible.  I  spoke  to  my  uncle  about 
it  one  noon  hour. 

"Why  can't  I  work  in  the  mill,  too?"  I  asked. 

"Wouldn't  you  rather  get  some  learning,  Al?" 
he  asked.  "You  know  men  can't  do  much  in 
the  world  without  learning.  It's  brains,  not 
hands,  that  makes  the  world  really  go  ahead. 
I  wish  you  could  get  a  lot  of  schooling  and  per- 
haps go  to  college.  It's  what  I  always  wanted 
and  never  got,  and  see  where  I  am  to-day.  I'm 
a  failure,  Al,  that's  what  I  am!" 

"But  aunt  says  that  I've  got  to  go  in  the  mill 
as  soon  as  I  can,  uncle." 

His  face  grew  sad  at  that,  and  he  said,  "Yes, 
through  our  drinking  and  getting  in  debt !  That's 
what  it's  all  leading  to !  It's  a  pity,  a  sad  pity ! " 
and  he  grew  so  gloomy  that  I  spoke  no  more 
about  the  matter  that  day. 

It  was  one  of  the  paradoxes  of  my  home,  that 
being  heavily  in  debt  for  our  steamship  tickets 
and  household  furnishings,  and  both  giving  a 
large  amount  of  patronage  to  the  saloons,  my 
aunt  and  uncle  involved  themselves  more  inex- 
tricably in  debt  by  buying  clothes  and  ornaments 

[87] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

on  the  "  Dollar-Down-Dollar-a-Week "  plan. 
There  was  no  economy,  no  recession  of  tastes,  no 
limit  of  desire  to  save  us.  Every  penny  that  I 
secured  was  spent  as  soon  as  earned.  I  learned 
this  from  my  foster  parents.  Uncle  had  his 
chalk-mark  at  the  saloon,  and  aunt  received 
regular  thrice-a-week  visits  from  the  beer  pedler. 
On  gala  days,  when  there  was  a  cheap  excursion 
down  the  bay,  aunt  could  make  a  splendid  ap- 
pearance on  the  street  in  a  princess  dress,  gold 
bracelets,  a  pair  of  earrings,  and  gloves  (Dollar- 
Down-Dollar-a-Week  plan).  When  Mrs.  Terence 
O'Boyle,  and  Mrs.  Hannigan,  daughter  to  Mrs. 
O'Boyle,  and  Mrs.  Redden,  the  loom  fixer's 
wife  with  her  little  baby,  came  to  our  house, 
after  the  breakfast  had  been  cleared  away,  and 
the  men  were  hard  at  work,  Aunt  Millie  would 
exclaim,  "Now,  friends,  the  beer  man's  just 
brought  a  dozen  lagers  and  a  bottle  of  port  wine. 
Sit  right  up,  and  make  a  merry  morning  of  it. 
You  must  be  tired,  Mrs.  Hannigan.  Won't 
your  babby  take  a  little  sup  of  port  for  warming 
his  stomach?"  Of  course,  Mrs.  O'Boyle  re- 
turned these  parties,  as  did  her  daughter  and 
Mrs.  Redden. 

My  uncle  dared  not  say  too  much  about  the 
visits  of  the  beer  wagon,  because  he  had  bis  own 
score  at  the  saloon,  and  his  appetite  for  drink 
was  transcendant.     Aunt  had  little  ways  of  her 

[88] 


THROUGH  THE   MILL 

own  for  pacifying  him  in  the  matter.  She  would 
save  a  half  dozen  bottles  till  night,  and  then,when 
he  came  home,  she  would  say,  "Now,  Stanwood, 
after  tea,  let's  be  comfortable.  I've  six  bottles 
in  for  you,  and  we'll  take  our  comfort  grand!" 

By  Friday  morning  the  financial  fret  began. 
My  aunt,  as  financier  of  the  house,  had  the  dis- 
posal of  her  husband's  fifteen  dollars  in  charge. 
In  the  disposal  of  this  amount,  she  indulged  in  a 
weird,  incomprehensible  arithmetical  calculation, 
certainly  original  if  not  unique.  In  place  of 
numerals  and  dollar  signs,  she  dotted  a  paper 
with  pencil  points,  and  did  some  mysterious  but 
logical  ruminating  in  her  head.  Her  reasoning 
always  followed  this  line,  however: 

"Fifteen  dollars  with  a  day  out,  that  leaves  — 
let  me  see  —  oh,  say  in  round  numbers,  thirteen, 
maybe  a  few  cents  out.  Well,  now,  let  me  see, 
out  of  that  comes,  first  of  all,  forty  cents  for  union 
money,  if  he  pays  it  this  week;  two  and  a  half 
for  rent,  only  we  owe  fifty  cents  from  last  week, 
which  we  must  pay  this,  or  else  we'll  be  thrown 
out.  Then  there's  fifteen  cents  for  that  dude  of 
an  insurance  man  —  he  says  he'll  lapse  us  if  we 
let  it  run  on  like  we  have.  Let  him  do  it,  the 
old  cheat!  I  don't  believe  they'd  plan  to  pay 
us  if  any  of  us  should  die.  They're  nothing  but 
robbers,  anyhow.  Where  was  I,  Al?  Let  me 
see,  there's  owing  a  dollar  for  the  furniture  — 

[89] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

WHEN  will  we  have  it  paid  for?  —  and  there's 
two  dollars  that  should  be  paid  the  Jew,  only 
we'll  have  to  satisfy  him  with  fifty  cents  this 
week,  because  there's  a  day  out."  (The  Jew 
was  the  man  who  kept  the  "New  England  Cloth- 
ing and  Furnishing  Company,"  from  whom  we 
had  bought  our  clothes,  a  set  of  furs,  and  the  gold 
bracelets  on  instalments.)  "This  week's  bill 
for  groceries  is  five  dollars  and  sixty-three  cents, 
the  baker  has  owing  him  about  seventy-five, 
the  meat  man  let  me  have  them  two  ham  bones 
and  that  shank  end,  and  I  owe  him  for  that; 
there's  some  white  shirts  and  collars  at  the 
Chinaman's,  but  I  want  to  say  right  here  that 
your  uncle  will  have  to  pay  for  those  out  of  his 
own  spending-money.  That's  too  much  of  a 
luxury,  that  is;  we  can't  go  on  with  such  gentle- 
manly notions  in  this  house  and  ever  get  ahead. 
Oh,  these  debts,  when  will  they  be  paid!  That 
is  all  I  think  of  except  the  beer  man.  He  won't 
wait,  whatever  comes  or  goes.  There,  that 
reckons  up  to  —  why,  how  in  the  name  of  God 
are  we  going  to  face  the  world  this  way?  I'm 
getting  clean  worn  out  with  this  figuring  every 
week!" 

After  finding  that  she  would  not  have  money 
enough  to  go  around  to  satisfy  all  the  clamorants, 
she  would  proceed  with  a  process  of  elimination, 
putting  off  first  the   tradesman   who  received 

[90] 


THROUGH  THE   MILL 

explanations  with  the  most  graciousness.  The 
insurance  man  she  did  not  care  for,  so  he  had  to 
be  put  off,  but,  with  his  own  interests  in  mind, 
he  would  carry  us  out  of  his  own  pocket  until 
some  grand  week  when  aunt  would  feel  kindly 
towards  him,  and  she  would  generously  make  up 
all  back  payments.  Aunt  always  went  to  the 
uttermost  limit  of  credit  possibility,  arranging 
her  numerous  creditors  like  checkers  on  a  board 
to  be  moved  backwards  and  forwards  week  by 
week.  The  beer  man  got  his  pay  every  week.  He 
did  not  allow  his  bills  to  grow  old.  In  arranging 
for  that  payment,  aunt  used  to  say,  as  if  protest- 
ing to  her  own  conscience,  "Well,  suppose  some 
others  do  have  to  wait!  I  want  to  have  a  case 
of  lager  in  over  Sunday.  We're  not  going  to 
scrimp  and  slave  without  some  enjoyment!'' 

Week  after  week  this  same  exasperating  allot- 
ment of  uncle's  wage  took  place,  with  but  minor 
variations.  Time  after  time  the  insurance  would 
drop  behind  and  would  be  taken  up  again. 
Time  after  time  the  Jew  would  threaten  to  put 
the  lawyers  on  us.  Time  after  time  the  grocer 
would  withhold  credit  until  we  paid  our  bill. 
yet  the  beer-wagon  stopped  regularly  at  our 
door,  and  Mrs.  O'Boyle,  her  daughter,  and  Mrs. 
Redden  would  exchange  courtesies  and  bottles. 
And  Aunt  was  always  consoling  her  sister  women 
on  such  occasions  with  this  philosophy:  "The 

[91] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

rich  have  carriages  and  fine  horses  and  grand 
mansions  for  enjoyment;  we  poor  folks,  not 
having  such,  must  get  what  comfort  we  can  out 
of  a  stimulating  sup!" 

And  Mrs.  Redden  would  reply,  "Yes,  Mrs. 
Brindin,  you're  right  for  sure.  Just  warm  a  bit 
of  that  ale  with  a  bit  of  sugar  stirred  in,  will  you, 
please?  It  will  warm  the  baby's  belly.  I  forgot 
to  bring  his  milk  bottle,  like  the  absent-minded 
I  am." 


[92] 


Chapter   VI L      I  am  given  the 

Privilege  of  Choosing  my 

own   Birthday 


Chapter  VI L  I  am  given  the 
Privilege  of  Choosing  my  own 
Birthday 

THE  reopening  of  the  public  schools 
in  the  fall  found  Aunt  Millie  stub- 
bornly refusing  to  allow  me  to  enter. 
"I  shall  never  know  anything,"  I 
protested.  But  she  replied,  with 
confidence,  "All  knowledge  and  wisdom  isn't 
in  schools.  There's  as  much  common  sense 
needed  in  getting  a  living.  I'll  keep  you  out 
just  as  long  as  the  truant  officer  keeps  away. 
Mind,  now,  and  not  run  blind  into  him  when 
you're  on  the  street.  If  you  do  —  why,  you'll 
know  a  thing  or  two,  young  man!" 

Uncle  pleaded  with  her  in  my  behalf,  but  she 
answered  him  virulently,  "Stop  that,  you  boozer, 
you!  We  must  get  out  of  debt  and  never  mind 
making  a  gentleman,  which  you  seem  set  on. 
I'd  be  ashamed  if  I  was  you.  Let  him  only  earn 
a  few  dollars,  and  we'd  be  relieved.     Goodness 

[95] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

knows  when  you're  going  to  drop  out,  the  way 
you're  guzzling  things  down.  It  wouldn't  sur- 
prise me  to  see  you  on  your  back  any  day,  and  I 
want  to  be  ready." 

But  some  days  later,  my  uncle  came  back 
home  from  work  with  much  to  say.  "Look 
here,  Millie,  it  might  be  good  for  us  to  send  Al 
to  school  right  away.  If  he  must  go  in  the  mill, 
as  it  seems  he  must  as  soon  as  he  can,  then  it's 
to  our  advantage  to  get  him  in  right  away!" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  he  can't  go  into  the  mill,  accord- 
ing to  law,  until  thirty  weeks  after  he's  thirteen, 
and  can  show  his  school  certificate." 

"But  he's  only  just  turned  eleven,"  protested 
my  aunt,  "that  would  keep  him  in  the  school 
practically  three  years.     Three  years!" 

"Normally,  it  would,"  agreed  Uncle  Stan- 
wood,  "but  it  don't  need  to  take  that  long,  if 
we  don't  care  to  have  it  so." 

"I'd  like  to  know  why!" 

"Well,  Millie,"  explained  uncle,  "Al's  not 
been  to  school  in  America,  yet.  All  we  have  to 
do  is  to  put  his  age  forward  when  he  does  go  in  — 
make  him  a  year  or  two  older  than  he  actually  is. 
They  won't  ask  for  birth  certificates  or  school 
papers  from  England.  They  will  take  our  word 
for  it.  Then  it  won't  be  long  before  we  can  have 
him   working.     Harry   Henshaw    tells    me    the 

[96] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

trick's  common  enough.  Then  when  Al's  worked 
a  while,  and  we  get  out  of  debt,  he  can  go  on 
with  his  schooling.  It's  the  only  way  to  keep 
ahead,  though  I  do  hate  to  have  him  leave 
school,  God  knows!" 

"None  of  that  cant,"  snapped  aunt;  "if  it 
wasn't  for  your  drinking  he  wouldn't  have  to  go 
in  the  mill,  and  you  know  it." 

"Yes,"  agreed  uncle,  sadly,  "I  know  it!" 

"Then,"  said  aunt,  once  more  referring  to 
the  immediate  subject  of  the  conference,  "it's  all 
decided  that  we  get  him  in  as  soon  as  possible." 

"Yes,"  agreed  uncle,  "we  can  put  him  any 
age  we  want,  and  lie  about  it  like  many  are  doing. 
What  age  shall  we  make  him,  Millie?" 

"Better  push  his  age  forward  as  near  to  thir- 
teen as  possible,"  said  aunt.  "He's  big  for 
eleven,  as  big  as  some  lads  two  years  older. 
Lets  call  him  twelve  and  a  half!" 

"Twelve,  going  on  thirteen,"  answered  my 
uncle. 

"Yes,"  mused  his  wife,  "but  nearly  thirteen, 
say  thirteen  about  Christmas  time,  that  would 
give  him  thirty  weeks  to  go  to  school,  and  he 
would  be  in  the  mill  a  year  from  now.  That 
will  be  all  right." 

"If  we  get  caught  at  it,"  warned  uncle,  "it 
means  prison  for  us,  according  to  law." 

"Never  mind,  let's  take  our  chances  like  the 
[97] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

rest,"  answered  aunt  with  great  decision.  "You 
tell  me  there  aren't  any  ever  get  caught!" 

"Oh,"  sighed  uncle,  "it's  safe  enough  for  that 
matter,  though  it's  hard  and  goes  against  the 
grain  to  take  Al  from  school." 

"Stop  that  cant!"  thundered  Aunt  Millie.  "I 
won't  have  it.  You  want  him  to  go  into  the 
mill  just  as  bad  as  I  do,  you  old  hypocrite!" 

"Don't  flare  up  so,"  retorted  uncle,  doggedly. 
You  wag  too  sharp  a  tongue.  It's  no  use  having 
a  row  over  the  matter.  Let's  dispose  of  the 
thing  before  bedtime." 

"What  else  is  there  to  settle?"  asked  my 
aunt. 

"Al's  got  to  have  a  new  birthday."  Aunt 
Millie  laughed  at  the  notion,  and  said,  addressing 
me,  "Now,  Al,  here's  a  great  chance  for  you. 
What  day  would  you  like  for  your  birthday?" 

"June  would  do,"  I  said. 

"June  wont  do,"  she  corrected,  "the  birthday 
has  got  to  come  in  winter,  near  Christmas;  no 
other  time  of  the  year  is  suitable.  Now  what 
part  of  November  would  you  like  it?  We'll 
give  you  that  much  choice." 

I  thought  it  over  for  some  time,  for  I  seriously 
entered  into  the  spirit  of  this  unique  opportunity 
of  choosing  my  own  birthday.  "The  twentieth 
of  November  will   do,   I   think,"   I   concluded. 

"The  twentieth  of  November,  then,  it  is," 
[98] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

answered  my  aunt.  You  will  be  thirteen,  thir- 
teen, next  twentieth  of  November,  mind  you. 
You  are  twelve,  going  on  thirteen!  Don't  forget 
that  for  a  minute;  if  you  do,  it  might  get  us  all 
in  jail  for  per-jury!  Now,  suppose  that  a  man 
meets  you  on  the  streets  to-morrow  and  asks  you 
what  your  age  is,  what  will  you  tell  him?" 

"I'm    thirteen,    going    on no,    I    mean 

twelve,  going  on  thirteen,  and  will  be  thirteen 
the  twentieth  of  November!" 

"Say  it  half  a  dozen  times  to  get  it  fixed  in 
your  mind,"  said  aunt,  and  I  rehearsed  it  inter- 
mittently till  bedtime,  so  that  I  had  it  indelibly 
fixed  in  my  mind  that,  henceforth,  I  must  go  into 
the  world  and  swear  to  a  lie,  abetted  by  my 
foster  parents,  all  because  I  wanted  to  go  into 
the  mill  and  because  my  foster  parents  wanted 
me  in  the  mill.  Thus  ended  the  night  when  I 
dropped  nearly  two  years  bodily  out  of  my  life, 
a  most  novel  experience  indeed  and  one  that 
surely  appeals  to  the  imagination  if  not  to  the 
sympathy. 

The  following  week,  a  few  days  before  I  was 
sent  to  the  public  school,  we  removed  to  a  part 
of  the  city  where  there  were  not  so  many  mill 
tenements,  into  the  first  floor  of  a  double 
tenement.  There  were  only  two  of  these  houses 
in  the  same  yard  with  a  grass  space  between 
them  facing  the  highway.     In  this  space,  during 

[99] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

the  early  fall,  the  landlord  dumped  two  bushels 
of  apples  every  Monday  morning  at  half  past 
eight.  It  was  definitely  understood  that  only 
the  children  of  the  tenants  should  be  entitled  to 
gather  the  fruit.  No  one  was  allowed  to  be  out 
of  the  house  until  the  landlord  himself  gave  the 
signal  that  all  was  ready,  so  we  could  be  found, 
peering  from  the  back  and  front  doors,  a  quick- 
eyed,  competitive  set  of  youngsters,  armed  with 
pillow-slips  and  baskets,  leaping  out  at  the  signal, 
falling  on  the  heap  of  apples,  elbowing  one  another 
until  every  apple  was  picked,  when  the  parents 
would  run  out,  settle  whatever  fights  had  started 
up,  note  with  jealous  eyes  how  much  of  the  fruit 
their  respective  representatives  had  secured,  all 
the  while  the  amused  landlord  stood  near  his  car- 
riage shouting,  "Your  Harry  did  unusually  well 
to-day,  Mrs.  Burns.  He  beat  them  all.  What  a 
pillow-slipful  he  got,  to  be  sure!" 

Finally  I  found  myself  in  an  American  school. 
I  do  not  know  what  grade  I  entered,  but  I  do 
know  that  my  teacher,  a  white-haired  woman 
with  a  saintly  face,  showed  me  much  attention. 
It  was  she  who  kept  me  after  school  to  find  out 
more  about  me.  It  was  she  who  inquired  about 
my  moral  and  spiritual  welfare,  and  when  she 
found  that  I  did  not  go  to  a  church,  mainly  on 
account  of  poor  clothes,  she  took  me  to  the  shop- 
ping  district   one   afternoon,   and   with   money 

[100] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

furnished  her  by  a  Woman's  Circle,  fitted  me 
out  with  a  brand  new  suit,  new  shoes  and  hat, 
and  sent  me  home  with  the  promise  that  I  would 
go  with  her  to  church  the  following  Sunday 
morning.  In  passing  down  a  very  quiet  street 
on  my  solitary  way  to  church,  the  next  Sabbath, 
I  came  to  that  high  picket  fence  behind  which 
grew  some  luscious  blue  grapes.  I  clambered 
over  the  fence,  picked  a  pocketful  of  the  fruit, 
and  then  went  on  to  meet  my  teacher  at  the  doors 
of  the  sombre  city  church,  where  the  big  bell 
clamored  high  in  the  air,  and  where  the  carpet 
was  thick,  like  a  bedspread,  so  that  people  walked 
down  the  aisles  silent  like  ghosts  and  as  sober. 
It  was  a  strange,  hushed,  and  very  thrilling  place, 
and  when  the  massive  organ  filled  the  place  with 
whispering  chords,  I  went  back  to  my  old  childish 
faith,  that  angels  sat  in  the  colored  pipes  and 
sang. 

My  days  in  the  school-yard  were  very,  very 
strenuous,  for  I  had  always  to  be  protecting 
England  and  the  English  from  assault.  I  found 
the  Americans  only  too  eager  to  reproduce  the 
Revolution  on  a  miniature  scale,  with  Bunker 
Hill  in  mind,  always. 

My  attendance  at  this  school  had  only  a 
temporary  aspect  to  it.  When  my  teacher  spoke 
to  me  of  going  to  the  grammar  school,  I  replied, 
"Oh,  I'm  going  in  the  mill  in  a  year,  please. 

[101] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

I  want  to  go  into  the  mill  and  earn  money. 
It's  better  than  books,  ma'am."  I  had  the  mill 
in  mind  always.  Every  day  finished  in  school 
was  one  day  nearer  to  the  mill.  I  judged  my 
fellows,  on  the  school-ground,  by  their  plans 
of  either  going  or  not  going  into  the  mill  as 
early  as  I. 

This  desire  to  enter  the  mill  was  more  and  more 
strengthened  as  the  winter  wore  on,  for  then  I 
was  kept  much  at  home  and  sent  on  the  streets 
after  wood  and  coal.  It  was  impossible  to  pick 
cinders  with  mittens  on,  and  especially  the  sort 
of  mittens  I  wore — old  stocking  feet,  doubled  to 
allow  one  piece  to  hide  the  holes  in  its  fellow. 
On  a  cold  day,  my  fingers  would  get  very  blue, 
and  my  wrists,  protruding  far  out  of  my  coat- 
sleeves,  would  be  frozen  into  numbness.  Any 
lad  who  had  once  been  in  a  mill  would  prefer  it 
to  such  experiences. 

My  aunt  kept  me  at  home  so  often  that  she 
had  to  invent  a  most  formidable  array  of  excuses 
to  send  to  my  teacher,  excuses  which  I  had  to 
write  and  carry.  We  never  had  any  note-paper 
in  the  house,  as  there  were  so  few  letters  ever 
written.  When  there  was  an  excuse  to  write, 
I  would  take  a  crumpled  paper  bag,  in  which 
had  been  onions  or  sugar,  or,  when  there  were 
no  paper  bags,  and  the  school  bell  was  ringing, 
requiring  haste,  I  would  tear  off  a  slip  of  the 

[102] 


THROUGH    THE   MILL 

paper  in  which  salt  pork  or  butter  had  been 
wrapped,  and  on  it  write  some  such  note  as  this : 

"Dear  Miss  A:  This  is  to  say  that  Al  had 
to  stay  home  yesterday  for  not  being  very  well. 
I  hope  you  will  excuse  it.  Very  truly  yours," 
and  my  aunt  would  scribble  her  name  to  it,  to 
make  it  authoritative. 

It  must  have  been  the  sameness  of  the  notes, 
and  their  frequency,  that  brought  the  white- 
haired  teacher  to  remonstrate  with  my  aunt  for 
keeping  me  away  from  school  so  much. 

"He  can  never  learn  at  his  best,"  complained 
the  teacher.  "He  is  really  getting  more  and 
more  behind  the  others." 

My  aunt  listened  humbly  enough  to  this  com- 
plaint and  then  unburdened  herself  of  her 
thoughts:  "What  do  I  care  what  he  learns  from 
books!  There  is  coal  and  wood  that's  needed 
and  he  is  the  one  to  help  out.  I  only  let  him 
go  to  school  because  the  law  makes  me.  If  it 
wasn't  for  the  law  you'd  not  see  him  there, 
wasting  his  time.  It's  only  gentlemen's  sons 
that  have  time  for  learning  from  books.  He's 
only  a  poor  boy  and  ought  to  be  earning  his  own 
living.  Coal  and  wood  is  more  to  the  point  in 
this  house  than  books  and  play.  Let  them  play 
that  has  time  and  go  to  school  that  has  the 
money.  All  you  hear  in  these  days  is,  'School, 
school,  school!'     Now,  /  have  got  through  all 

[103] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

these  years  without  schooling,  and  others  of  my 
class  and  kind  can.  Why,  Missis,  do  you  know, 
J  had  to  go  into  the  mill  when  I  was  a  slip  of  a 
girl,  when  I  was  only  seven,  there  in  England. 
I  had  to  walk  five  miles  to  work  every  morning, 
before  beginning  the  hard  work  of  the  day,  and 
after  working  all  day  I  had  to  carry  my  own 
dinner-box  back  that  distance,  and  then,  on  top 
of  that,  there  was  duties  to  do  at  home  when  I 
got  there.  No  one  ever  had  mercy  on  me,  and 
it  isn't  likely  that  I'll  go  having  mercy  on  others. 
Who  ever  spoke  to  me  about  schooling,  I'd  like 
to  know !  It's  only  people  of  quality  who  ought 
to  go  to  get  learning,  for  its  only  the  rich  that  is 
ever  called  upon  to  use  schooling  above  reading. 
If  I  got  along  with  it,  can't  this  lad,  I'd  like  to 
know?" 

And  with  this  argument  my  teacher  had  to  be 
content,  but  she  reported  my  absences  to  the 
truant  officer,  who  came  and  so  troubled  my 
aunt,  with  his  authority,  that  she  sent  me  oftener 
to  school  after  that. 

About  this  time,  at  the  latter  end  of  winter, 
uncle  removed  to  the  region  of  the  mill  tene- 
ments again.  I  changed  my  school,  also. 
This  time  I  found  myself  enrolled  in  what  was 
termed  the  Mill  School. 

As  I  recall  it,  the  Mill  School  was  a  depart- 
ment of  the  common  schools,  in  which  were  placed 

[104] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

all  boys  and  girls  who  had  reached  thirteen  and 
were  planning  to  enter  the  mill  as  soon  as  the 
law  permitted.  If  you  please,  it  was  my  "finish- 
ing school."  I  have  always  considered  it  as  the 
last  desperate  effort  of  the  school  authorities 
to  polish  us  off  as  well  as  they  could  before  we 
slipped  out  of  their  care  forever.  I  am  not 
aware  of  any  other  reason  for  the  existence  of 
the  Mill  School,  as  I  knew  it. 

However,  it  was  a  very  appropriate  and  sug- 
gestive name.  It  coupled  the  mill  with  the 
school  very  definitely.  It  made  me  fix  my  mind 
more  than  ever  on  the  mill.  Everybody  in  it 
was  planning  for  the  mill.  We  talked  mill  on 
the  play-ground,  drew  pictures  of  mills  at  our 
desks,  dreamed  of  it  when  we  should  have  been 
studying  why  one  half  of  a  quarter  is  one  fourth, 
or  some  similar  exercise.  We  had  a  recess  of 
our  own,  after  the  other  floors  had  gone  back  into 
their  classrooms,  and  we  had  every  reason  to 
feel  a  trifle  more  dignified  than  the  usual  run  of 
thirteen-year-old  pupils  who  plan  to  go  through 
the  grammar,  the  high,  and  the  technical  schools ! 
After  school,  when  we  mixed  with  our  less  for- 
tunate companions,  who  had  years  and  years 
of  school  before  them,  we  could  not  avoid  having 
a  supercilious  twang  in  our  speech  when  we  said, 
"Ah,  don't  you  wish  you  could  go  into  the  mill 
in  a  few  months  and  earn  money  like  were  going 

[105] 


THROUGH  THE   MILL 

to  do,  eh?"  or,  "Just  think,  Herb,  I'm  going  to 
wear  overalls  rolled  up  to  the  knees  and  go  bare- 
footed all  day!" 

If  the  thumbscrew  of  the  Inquisition  were 
placed  on  me,  I  could  not  state  the  exact  curric- 
ulum I  passed  through  during  the  few  months 
in  the  Mill  School.  I  did  not  take  it  very  seri- 
ously, because  my  whole  mind  was  taken  up  with 
anticipations  of  working  in  the  mill.  But  the 
coming  of  June  roses  brought  to  an  end  my  stay 
there.  The  teacher  gave  me  a  card  which  certi- 
fied that  I  had  fulfilled  the  requirements  of  the 
law  in  regard  to  final  school  attendance.  I  went 
home  that  afternoon  with  a  consciousness  that 
I  had  grown  aged  suddenly.  When  my  aunt 
saw  the  card,  her  enjoyment  knew  no  bounds. 

"Good  for  you,  Al!"  she  exclaimed,  "We'll 
make  short  work  of  having  you  in  the  mill  now." 

As  I  attempt  to  visualize  myself  to  myself  at 
the  time  of  my  "graduation"  from  the  common 
school,  I  see  a  lad,  twelve  years  of  age  and  grow- 
ing rapidly  in  stature,  with  unsettled,  brown 
hair  which  would  neither  part  nor  be  smoothed, 
a  front  tooth  missing,  having  been  knocked  out 
by  a  stone  inadvertently  thrown  while  he  was 
in  swimming,  a  lean,  lank,  uncouth,  awkward 
lad  at  the  awkward  age,  with  a  mental  furnishing 
which  permitted  him  to  tell  with  authority 
when  America  was  discovered,  able  to  draw  a 

[106] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

half  of  an  apple  on  drawing-paper,  just  in  com- 
mon fractions,  able  to  distinguish  between  nouns 
and  verbs,  and  a  very  good  reader  of  most  fear- 
some dime  novels.  The  law  said  that  I  was 
"fitted"  now  to  leave  school  and  take  my  place 
among  the  world's  workers! 

But  now  that  I  was  ready  to  enter  the  mill, 
with  my  school  certificate  in  my  possession, 
Uncle  Stanwood  raised  his  scruples  again,  saying 
regretfully  enough,  "Oh,  Al  musn't  leave  the 
school.  He  might  never  get  back  again,  Millie." 
My  aunt  laughed  cynically,  and  handed  two 
letters  to  her  husband. 

"Read  them,  and  see  what  you  think!"  she 
said.  Uncle  read  the  two  letters,  and  turned 
very  pale,  for  they  were  lawyer's  letters,  threaten- 
ing to  strip  our  house  of  the  furniture  and  to 
sue  us  at  law,  if  we  did  not  bring  up  the  back 
payments  we  owed  on  our  clothing  and  our 
furniture!  "You  see,  canter,"  scoffed  aunt, 
"he's  got  to  go  in.  There's  no  other  help,  is 
there!"  Uncle,  crushed,  said,  "No,  there  isn't. 
Would  to  God  there  was!"  And  so  the  matter 
was  decided. 

"In  the  morning  you  must  take  Al  to  the 
school  committee  and  get  his  mill-papers,"  said 
my  aunt,  before  we  went  to  bed. 

"I'll  ask  off  from  work,  then,"  replied  my 
uncle. 

[107] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

I  always  enjoyed  being  in  the  company  of 
Uncle  Stanwood.  He  was  always  trying  to 
make  me  happy  when  it  was  in  his  power  to  do 
so.  I  knew  his  heart — that  despite  the  weakness 
of  his  character,  burned  with  great  love  for  me. 
He  was  not,  like  Aunt  Millie,  buffeting  me  about, 
as  if  I  were  a  pawn  in  the  way.  He  had  the  kind 
word  for  me,  and  the  desirable  plan.  On  our 
walk  to  the  school  committee's  office,  in  the 
heart  of  the  city,  we  grew  very  confidential  when 
we  found  ourselves  beyond  the  keen,  jealous 
hearing  of  Aunt  Millie. 

"That  woman,"  he  said,  "stops  me  from  being 
a  better  man,  Al.  You  don't  know,  lad,  how 
often  I  try  to  tone  up,  and  she  always  does  some 
thing  to  prevent  my  carrying  it  out.  I  suppose 
it's  partly  because  she  drinks,  too,  and  likes  it 
better  than  I  do.  Drink  makes  quite  a  difference 
in  people,  God  knows!  It's  the  stuff  that  kept 
me  from  being  a  man.  Now  that  you're  going 
into  the  mill,  Al,  I  hope  you'll  not  be  led  off  to 
touch  it.  Whatever  you're  tempted  to  do,  don't 
drink!"  Then  he  added,  "I'm  a  nice  one  to  be 
telling  you  that.  You  see  it  every  day,  and 
probably  will  see  it  every  day  while  your  aunt's 
with  me.  I  could  leave  it  alone  if  she  weren't 
in  the  house.  But  now  we've  got  to  be  planning 
what  we  are  going  to  do  in  the  office  that  we're 
going  to,  I  suppose.     There's  a  lie  in  it  for  both 

[108] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

of  us,  Al,  now  that  we  have  our  foot  in  so  far. 
You'll  have  to  swear  with  me  that  you're  the 
right,  legal  age,  though  it's  a  deliberate  lie. 
My  God,  who  would  ever  have  thought  that  I'd 
come  to  it.  It's  jail  if  we're  caught,  lad,  but 
we  won't  be  caught.  Don't  do  anything  but 
answer  questions  as  they're  put.  That  will  keep 
you  from  saying  too  much.  Stand  on  your  tip- 
toes, and  talk  deep,  so  that  you'll  seem  big  and 
old." 

Finally  we  approached  the  office  of  the  school- 
committee,  in  a  dingy,  wooden  building,  on  the 
ground  floor.  A  chipped  tin  sign  was  tacked 
underneath  the  glass  panels  of  the  door,  and, 
sure  of  the  place,  we  entered.  We  were  in  a 
narrow,  carpeted  hall,  long  and  darkened,  which 
passed  before  a  high,  bank  desk,  behind  which 
sat  a  young  man  mumbling  questions  to  a  dark 
woman,  who  stood  with  her  right  hand  held  aloft, 
while  a  boy  stood  at  her  side  trying  to  button  his 
coat  as  fast  as  he  could,  in  nervousness.  There 
were  several  other  boys  and  a  few  girls,  seated 
with  their  parents  on  the  settee  near  the  wall. 
We  found  a  place  among  them,  and  watched 
the  solemn  proceedings  that  were  taking  place 
before  us,  as  boys  and  girls  were  questioned  by 
the  young  man,  vouched  for  by  their  parents, 
and  sent  off  with  their  mill-certificates. 

One  by  one  they  left  us :  tall  Portuguese  lads, 
[109] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

with  baggy,  pepper-and-salt  trousers  over  their 
shoe  tops,  and  a  shine  on  their  dark  cheeks,  little 
girls  in  gaudy  dresses  and  the  babyishness  not 
yet  worn  off  their  faces;  Irish  lads,  who,  in  wash- 
ing up  for  this  solemn  time,  had  forgotten  patches 
of  dirt  in  their  ears  and  on  their  necks;  an 
American  boy,  healthy,  strong,  and  self-confi- 
dent, going  to  join  the  ranks  of  labor.. 

Then  it  was  my  turn.  Uncle  stood  up  before 
that  perfunctory  young  man  and  began  to 
answer  questions,  pinching  me  every  now  and 
then  in  warning  to  remember  what  he  had  said. 
I  braced  up,  as  well  as  I  could,  muttering  to 
myself,  "Thirteen  on  the  twentieth  of  Novem- 
ber, going  on  fourteen,  sir!"  lest,  when  the  time 
came,  I  should  make  a  guilty  slip.  My  school- 
certificate  was  produced,  the  books  were  con- 
sulted, and  that  part  of  the  matter  ended.  The 
clerk  then  looked  me  over  for  an  instant,  asked 
me  a  few  questions  which  I  cannot  now  recall, 
and  then  turned  to  uncle.  Slowly,  with  hand 
raised  to  God,  my  uncle  swore  that  I  was  "thir- 
teen last  November."  In  about  five  minutes 
the  examination  was  completed.  In  that  time 
there  had  been  a  hurried  scratching  of  a  pen,  a 
flourish  or  two,  the  pressure  of  a  blotter  and  a 
reaching  out  of  uncle  Stanwood's  hand.  The 
last  barrier  between  me  and  the  mill  was  down! 
The  law  had  sanctioned  my  fitness  for  a  life  of 

[110] 


THROUGH  THE   MILL 

labor.  Henceforth  neither  physician  could  debar 
me,  nor  clergyman  nor  teacher  nor  parent!  No 
one  seemed  to  have  doubted  my  uncle's  word, 
nor  to  have  set  a  moral  plumb-line  against  me. 
It  had  been  a  mere  matter  of  question  and 
answer,  writing  and  signing.  The  law  had  per- 
functorily passed  me,  and  that  was  enough! 

So  we  passed  out  of  that  office,  my  uncle  grimly 
clutching  the  piece  of  paper  for  which  he  had 
perjured  himself  —  the  paper  which  was  my 
warrant,  consigning  me  to  years  of  battling 
beyond  my  strength,  to  years  of  depression, 
morbidity,  and  over-tired  strain,  years  to  be 
passed  in  the  center  of  depravity  and  de-socializ- 
ing doctrine.  But  that  was  a  memorable  and 
glad  moment  for  me,  for  to-morrow,  maybe, 
I  should  carry  my  own  dinner  pail,  and  wear 
overalls,    and    work    for    wages! 


[mi 


Chapter  VIII.     The  Keepers  of 

the  Mill  Gate j  Snuff  Rubbing, 

and  the  Play  of  a  Brute 


Chapter  VI I L  The  Keepers  of 
the  Mill  Gate,  Snuff  Rubbing, 
and  the  Play  of  a  Brute 

THE  first  question  that  we  have  to 
settle,"  commented  my  aunt,  when 
we  returned  home  with  the  mill- 
certificate,  "is,  what  is  Al  going 
to  work  at  in  the  mill?" 
"  It  might  be  well  to  let  him  go  into  the  weave 
shed  and  learn  to  weave,"  said  my  uncle;  "after 
he's  learned,  he  might  be  able  to  run  some  looms 
and  earn  more  than  he  could  in  any  other  part 
of  the  mill." 

"Meanwhile,  he  don't  draw  any  money  while 
he's  learning,  and  it  takes  some  months,  don't 
it?" 
"Yes." 

Then  I  interrupted,  "I'd  like  the  weave  room, 
Aunt  Millie.     I  want  to  draw  as  big  a  wage  as 
can. 

"You  shut  your  yap!"  she  retorted,  angrily. 
[115] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

"You  haven't  any  finger  in  this,  mind.  I  say 
that  he  must  get  to  work  at  something  right 
away,  that  will  bring  in  immediate  wages." 

"But  think  of  the  pay  he'd  get  after  he'd 
learned  weaving,  Millie,"  retorted  my  uncle; 
"It  would  make  up  for  the  time  he'd  spent  in 
learning.  He'd  get  treble  what  he  can  by  taking 
up  sweeping,  in  the  long  run!" 

"Into  the  mill  he  goes,"  concluded  my  aunt, 
firmly,  "and  he  goes  to  work  at  something  that 
will  pay  money  right  off,  I  don't  care  a  snap 
what  it  is!" 

"That's  no  reason!" 

"Reason,"  she  snapped,  "you  speaking  of 
reason,  and  here  we  are  head  over  ears  in  debt. 
It's  time  this  fellow  was  earning  his  keep." 

Next  neighbor  to  us  was  a  family  named 
Thomas.  My  aunt  exchanged  library  books 
with  Sarah  Ann  Thomas.  Uncle  went  to  the 
Workingmen's  Club  with  "Matty"  Thomas, 
and  I  was  the  boon  companion  of  "Zippy" 
Thomas.  When  Zippy  learned  from  me  that 
I  had  secured  my  mill-certificate,  his  joy  was 
unbounded.  He  gave  me  a  broad  wink,  and 
whispered,  "You  had  to  fake  it,  didn't  you,  Al?" 
I  nodded. 

"They  did  mine,  too!  I  won't  tell,  you  know. 
I  wish  you'd  come  and  work  in  the  same  room 
with  me.     I'm  sweepin',  and  get  three  plunks  a 

[116] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

week."  Then  he  winked  again, and  said, "There's 
some  nice  girls  sweepin'  with  me,  too.  Won't 
it  be  bully  if  you  can  strike  it  with  me.  They 
need  another  sweeper.  One  got  fired  this  morn- 
ing for  boring  a  hole  in  the  belt-box  to  get 
electricity  on  a  copper  wire  to  kill  cockroaches. 
You  could  get  his  job  if  you  wanted  and  tried." 
I  told  him  to  wait  for  me  till  I  ran  and  told 
my  uncle  about  it. 

Uncle  came  out  with  me,  and  met  Zippy. 

"Where  does  the  second  hand  live,  lad?"  he 
asked. 

"He's  Canadian,  his  name's  Jim  Coultier," 
announced  Zippy.  "He  lives  at  the  other  end  of 
the  tenements." 

We  found  Jim  at  home.  No  sooner  was  the 
object  of  our  visit  made  known  than  he  nodded 
his  head,  and  said,  "Tol'  him  to  coom  wid 
Sippy'  morrer  mornin',"  whereat  my  uncle  was 
so  pleased  that  he  invited  the  Frenchman  to  go 
out  with  him  to  Riley's  saloon,  to  celebrate  my 
entrance  into  the  mill. 

"So  you're  going  to  be  a  wage-earner,  like 
your  uncle,  are  you?"  laughed  my  aunt,  when  I 
returned  with  the  news  of  my  success.  "Run 
right  down  to  the  Jew's  and  get  a  pair  of  over- 
alls, the  blue  ones,  and  two  two-for-a-quarter 
towels,  the  rough,  Turkish  ones.  Then  come 
right  home,  and  get  to  bed,  for  you'll  have  to 

[117] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

get  up  in  good  season  to-morrow  morning,  so's 
to  be  on  hand  when  Zippy  calls  for  you." 

The  next  morning  I  was  awakened  at  half- 
past  five,  though  it  took  very  little  to  awaken 
me.  My  aunt  was  busy  with  the  breakfast  when 
I  went  out  into  the  kitchen  to  wash  my  face. 
She  turned  to  me  with  a  kindness  that  was 
unusual,  and  said,  "How  many  eggs  shall  I  fry, 
Al?  Have  as  many  as  you  want  this  morning, 
you  know."     I  said  that  three  would  do. 

I  came  into  a  place  of  respect  and  honor  in 
the  family  that  morning.  My  aunt  actually 
waited  upon  me,  and  watched  me  eat  with  great 
solicitude.  There  was  toast  for  me,  and  I  did  not 
have  to  wait  until  uncle  was  through  before  I 
got  my  share  of  it.  With  no  compunction 
whatever,  I  asked  for  a  second  piece  of  cake! 

Then,  while  the  six  o'clock  mill  bell  was  giving 
its  half-hour  warning,  Zippy  knocked  on  the 
door,  while  he  whistled  the  chorus  of,  "Take 
back  your  gold,  for  gold  will  never  buy  me!" 
Five  minutes  more  were  spent  in  listening  to 
moral  counsels  from  my  aunt  and  uncle  and  to 
many  hints  on  how  to  get  along  with  the  bosses, 
and  Zippy  and  I  went  out  on  the  street,  where 
we  joined  that  sober  procession  of  mill  people, 
which,  six  mornings  out  of  seven,  the  whole  year 
round,  goes  on  its  weary  way  towards  the  multi- 
tude of  mills  in  that  city. 

[118] 


THROUGH  THE   MILL 

Zippy  did  all  he  could  to  make  my  advent  in 
the  mill  easy.  Before  we  had  reached  the  mill 
gates  he  had  poured  forth  a  volume  of  sage 
advice.  Among  other  counsels,  he  said,  "Now 
Al,  if  any  guy  tells  you  to  go  and  grease  the  nails 
in  the  floor,  just  you  point  to  your  eye  like  this," 
and  he  nearly  jabbed  his  forefinger  into  his 
left  eye,  "and  you  say,  'See  any  green  there?' 
Don't  ever  go  for  a  left-handed  monkey-wrench, 
and  don't  go  to  the  overseer  after  a  carpet- 
sweeper;  them's  all  guys,  and  you  don't  want 
to  catch  yourself  made  a  fool  of  so  easy.  If  the 
boss  puts  you  to  sweepin'  wid  me,  why,  I'll  put 
you  on  to  most  of  the  dodges  they  catches  a 
new  guy  wid,  see!" 

When  we  arrived  at  the  mill  gates,  Zippy 
looked  at  the  big  tower  clock,  and  announced, 
"Al,  we've  got  twenty  minutes  yet  before  the 
mill  starts,  let's  sit  out  here.  You'll  be  right 
in  the  swim!"  and  he  pointed  to  a  line  of  men 
and  boys  sitting  on  the  dirt  with  their  backs 
braced  against  the  mill  fence.  Either  side  of 
the  gate  was  thus  lined.  Zippy  and  I  found  our 
places  near  the  end  of  the  line,  and  I  took  note 
of  what  went  on.  The  air  thereabouts  was  thick 
with  odors  from  cigarettes  and  clay  pipes.  The 
boys  near  me  aimed  streams  of  colored  expec- 
toration over  their  hunched  knees  until  the 
cinder  walk  was  wet.     Everybody  seemed  to  be 

[119] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

borrowing  a  neighbor's  plug  of  tobacco,  matches, 
cigarette  papers,  or  tobacco  pouch.  Meanwhile, 
the  other  employees  trudged  by.  Some  of  the 
men  near  us  would  recognize,  in  the  shawled, 
bent  women,  with  the  tired  faces,  their  wives, 
struggling  on  to  a  day's  work,  and  would  call, 
jocosely,  "  'Ello,  Sal,  has't  got  'ere?  I  thowt 
tha'd  forgot  to  come.  Hurry  on,  girl,  tha's 
oilin'  t'  do!"  Or  the  younger  boys  would  note 
a  pretty  girl  tripping  by,  and  one  would  call  out, 
"Ah,  there,  peachy!"  The  "peachy"  would 
turn  her  coiffured  head  and  make  her  pink  lips 
say,  "You  old  mutt,  put  your  rotten  tongue  in 
your  mouth,  and  chase  yourself  around  the  block 
three  times!"  A  woman,  who  was  no  better 
than  her  reputation  came  into  view,  a  woman 
with  paint  daubed  on  her  cheeks,  and  that  was 
the  signal  for  a  full  venting  of  nasty  speech 
which  the  woman  met  by  a  bold  glance  and  a 
muttered,  filthy  curse.  Girls,  who  were  admir- 
able in  character,  came  by,  many  of  them,  and 
had  to  run  the  gauntlet,  but  they  had  been 
running  it  so  long,  day  in  and  day  out,  that  their 
ears  perhaps  did  not  catch  the  significant  and 
suggestive  things  that  were  loudly  whispered 
as  they  passed. 

When  at  last  the  whistles  and  the  bells  an- 
nounced five  minutes  before  starting  time,  the 
keepers   of  the  gate  jumped   up,   threw   away 

[120] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

cigarette  stubs,  emptied  pipes,  grumbled  foully, 
took  consolation  from  tobacco  plugs,  and  went 
into  the  mill. 

Zippy  led  me  at  a  run  up  three  flights  of  iron- 
plated  stairs,  through  a  tin-covered  door,  and 
into  a  spinning  room.  When  we  arrived,  not  a 
wheel  was  stirring.  I  almost  slipped  on  the 
greasy  floor.  Up  and  down  the  length  of  the 
room  the  ring  spinning  frames  were  standing 
like  orderly  companies  of  soldiers  forever  on  dress 
parade.  Above,  the  ceiling  was  a  tangled  mass 
of  belts,  electric  wires,  pipes,  beams,  and  shaft- 
ing. The  room  was  oppressively  heated,  and 
was  flavored  with  a  sort  of  canker  breath. 

As  I  stood  there,  interested  in  my  new  sur- 
roundings, the  wheels  began  to  move,  almost 
silently,  save  for  a  slight,  raspy  creaking  in  some 
of  the  pulleys.  The  belts  began  to  tremble  and 
lap,  the  room  was  filled  with  a  low,  bee-like  hum. 
A  minute  later,  the  wheels  were  whirling  with 
such  speed  that  the  belts  clacked  as  they  turned. 
The  hum  was  climbing  up  the  scale  slowly, 
insistently,  and  one  could  not  avoid  feeling  sure 
that  it  would  reach  the  topmost  note  soon. 
Then  the  girl  spinners  jumped  up  from  the  floor 
where  they  had  been  sitting,  and  went  to  their 
frames.  Some  pulled  the  levers,  and  tried  their 
machines.  Everybody  seemed  to  be  shouting 
and  having  a  last  word  of  gossip.     The  second 

[121] 


THROUGH  THE   MILL 

hand  stood  near  the  overseer's  desk  with  his 
fingers  stuck  in  his  mouth.  He  whistled,  and 
that  was  the  signal  for  all  the  girls  to  start  their 
frames.  At  last  the  pulleys  had  attained  that 
top  note  in  their  humming,  like  a  top,  and  with 
it  were  mixed  screams,  whistles,  loud  commands, 
the  rattle  of  doffer's  trucks,  poundings,  the  clank- 
ing of  steel  on  steel,  and  the  regular  day's  work 
was  begun. 

Zippy  had  gone  into  the  elevator  room  and 
changed  his  clothes.  He  stood  near  me,  and  I 
saw  his  lips  move. 

"What?"  I  shouted  at  the  top  of  my  lungs. 

He  laughed,  and  then  warned,  "Don't  thunder 
so.  I  can  hear  you  if  you  speak  lower.  You'll 
get  used  to  hearing  soon.  Come  with  me.  The 
boss  says  for  me  to  show  you  where  to  dress." 

"To  dress!"  At  last  I  was  to  put  on  overalls 
and  go  barefooted !  Zippy  led  me  to  the  elevator 
room,  a  large,  quiet  place,  when  the  thick  door 
was  shut  and  there  were  cheerful  windows  open, 
where  the  cool  air  came  in.  I  stripped  off  my 
clothes  and  put  on  the  overalls.  I  was  ready 
for  work.  "The  boss  wants  to  see  your  certifi- 
cate," announced  Zippy. 

The  overseer  was  a  Canadian,  like  the  second 
hand.  He  had  his  feet  on  the  desk,  and  was 
engrossed  in  the  Morning  Mercury  when  I 
reached  him.     He  turned  around  with  a  terrific 

[122] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

speed  on  his  swivel  chair,  when  we  came  up  to 
him,  and   enquired,  somewhat  kindly,  "Well?" 

"Please,  sir,"  I  began,  "I  come  to  work  —  to 
sweep.  Jim  Coultier  told  me  to  come  last 
night!" 

"Take  him  to  Jim.  Don't  bother  me,"  grum- 
bled the  overseer.     "Jim  will  settle  it." 

Jim  did  settle  it.  He  took  my  certificate  and 
gave  it  to  the  overseer,  and  then  told  me  to  follow 
him  to  the  other  end  of  the  mill.  In  a  cupboard 
was  a  great  supply  of  new  brooms,  waste,  and  oil 
cups.  He  took  out  a  broom,  spread  it  wide,  and 
gave  it  to  me. 

"Two  a  week,"  he  said,  "no  more."  Then 
he  turned  to  Zippy,  and  said,  "Show  him  whar 
for  to  do!" 

Zippy,  no  doubt  bursting  with  importance 
with  all  this  supervision,  led  me  to  an  open  space 
in  the  middle  of  the  long  room,  where,  sitting 
near  some  waste  boxes,  were  two  girls,  bare- 
footed, about  my  own  age.  Zippy  led  me  right 
up  to  them,  and  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  an- 
nounced, "Girls,  this  here's  Al  Priddy.  This  is 
Mary,  and  t'other's  Jane.  Come  on,  girls,  it's 
time  to  go  around  the  mill  before  the  boss  sees 
us." 

But  just  then  the  second  hand  caught  us 
grouped  there,  and  stormed,  angrily,  "Get  to 
work!" 

[123] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

Mary  was  a  very  strong  girl  of  thirteen,  with 
a  cheery,  fat  face.  She  had  been  in  the  mill  a 
half  year,  and  was  learning  to  spin  during  her 
spare  time.  I  noticed  that  her  teeth  were  yellow, 
and  with  a  bluntness  that  I  did  not  realize  I  said 
to  her,  when  she  had  taken  me  to  show  me  how 
to  sweep,  "What  makes  your  teeth  so  yellow, 
Mary?" 

She  laughed,  and  then  said,  confidentially, 
"I  chew  snuff.  I'm  learning  from  the  older 
girls." 

"Chew  snuff?" 

She  nodded,  "I'm  rubbing,  you  see,"  and  we 
sat  down  while  she  showed  me  what  she  meant. 
She  took  a  strip  of  old  handkerchief  from  her 
apron,  and  a  round  box  of  snuff.  She  powdered 
the  handkerchief  with  the  snuff,  and  then  rubbed 
it  vigorously  on  her  teeth. 

"I  like  it,"  she  announced.  "It's  like  you 
boys  when  you  chew  tobacco,  only  this  is  the 
girl's  way." 

My  work  required  little  skill  and  was  soon 
mastered.  I  had  to  sweep  the  loose  cotton  from 
the  floor  and  put  it  in  a  can.  Then  there  were 
open  parts  of  stationary  machinery  to  clean  and 
a  little  oiling  of  non-dangerous  parts.  This 
work  did  not  take  more  than  two-thirds  of  the 
ten  and  a  half  hours  in  the  work  day.  The 
remainder  of   the   time,  Zippy,  the   girls,  and 

[124] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

I  spent  in  the  elevator  room,  where  the  doffers 
also  came  for  a  rest. 

I  had  occasion  to  get  very  well  acquainted 
with  two  of  the  doffers  that  first  day.  Their 
names  were  "  Mallet"  and  " Curley,"  two  French 
Canadians.  Mallet  was  a  lithe,  sallow-faced, 
black-haired  depredator  of  morals,  who  fed  on 
doughnuts,  and  spent  most  of  his  wages  in  help- 
ing out  his  good  looks  with  the  aid  of  the  tailor, 
the  boot-maker,  and  the  barber.  He  came  to  the 
mill  dressed  in  the  extreme  of  fashion,  and  always 
with  his  upper  lip  curled,  as  if  he  despised  every 
person  he  passed  —  save  the  good-looking  girls. 
Curley  was  Mallet's  antithesis  in  everything 
but  moral  ignorance.  He  was  a  towering  brute, 
with  a  child's,  yes,  less  than  a  child's,  brain.  He 
ran  to  muscle.  He  could  outlift  the  strongest 
man  in  the  mill  without  increasing  his  heart- 
beat. His  chief  diversions  were  lifting  weights, 
boasting  of  his  deeds  with  weights  in  contests  of 
the  past,  and  the  recital  of  filthy  yarns  in  which 
he  had  been  the  chief  actor. 

That  afternoon  of  my  first  day  in  the  mill, 
Mallet  and  Curley  shut  themselves  in  the  eleva- 
tor room  with  Zippy  and  me. 

"Ah,"  drawled  Mallet,  noticing  me,  as  if  for 
the  first  time,  "who  tol'  you  for  to  come  here, 
eh?" 

"Because  I  want  to,"  I  retorted. 
[125] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

"Curley,"  he  called  to  the  brute,  who  was 
grinning  at  me,  "gif  heem  a  chew,  eh?" 

The  brute  nodded  in  glee,  and  pulled  out  a 
black  plug  of  tobacco  and  handed  it  me. 

"You  take  a  big,  big  chew!"  he  commanded. 
I  threw  the  plug  on  the  floor  and  stoutly  declared, 
"I  won't."  Both  of  the  companions  laughed, 
and  came  over  to  where  I  sat.  Curley  pinned 
me  helplessly  to  the  floor,  while  Mallet  stuffed 
the  piece  of  tobacco  in  my  mouth  that  he  had 
hastily  cut  off  from  the  plug.  Then  Curley 
took  an  excruciating  grip  on  one  of  my  fingers 
so  that  by  a  simple  pressure  it  seemed  as  if  the 
finger  would  snap. 

"You  chew,  or  I  brakit,"  he  glared  down  on 
me.  I  refused,  and  had  to  suffer  intolerable 
agony  for  a  minute.  Then  the  brute  bent  his 
face  close  to  mine,  with  his  foul  mouth  over 
my  eyes. 

"I  spit  in  your  eye  if  you  do  not  chew,"  he  an- 
nounced, as  he  looked  off  for  a  second,  and  then 
with  his  mouth  fixed  he  bent  over  me,  and  I  had 
to  chew. 

In  a  short  time  I  was  deathly  sick.  This 
accomplished,  the  giant  gave  me  up  until  he  got 
to  his  feet,  then  he  took  me  in  his  arms,  as  he 
would  have  taken  a  child,  and  carried  me  out 
into  the  spinning  room  for  the  girls  to  laugh  at. 

"Dis  man  try  for  to  chew  plug,"  announced 
[126] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

Mallet.  "Now  heem  seek.  Oh!  oh!"  Then 
I  was  carried  to  the  third  hand,  a  friend  of  the 
doffers,  and  Mallet  announced,  "You'd  best  fire 
dis  kid.  Heem  chew  and  get  seek,  boss."  The 
third  hand  scowled  at  me,  and  said,  "Cut  it  out, 
kid,  if  you  stay  here." 

When  I  went  home  at  the  end  of  the  day,  aunt 
asked  me  what  sort  of  a  day  I'd  had.  "Oh," 
I  said,  "when  I  know  the  ropes  it  will  be  pretty 
fair."  I  was  thinking  of  the  three  dollars  I 
should  get  the  second  week.  I  said  nothing 
about  the  tobacco  incident.  When  I  sat  down 
to  supper,  I  could  not  eat.  My  aunt  remarked, 
"Don't  let  it  take  your  appetite  away,  Al,  lad. 
It  takes  strength  to  work  in  the  mill." 

"I'm  not  hungry,"  I  said,  and  I  was  not;  for, 
before  my  imagination,  there  rose  up  the  perse- 
cuting figures  of  Mallet  and  Curley,  and  I  could 
still  taste  the  stinging  flavor  of  the  plug. 


[127] 


Chapter  IX.     A  Factory  Fash- 

ion-plate,  the  Magic  Shirt 

Bosomy  and  JVise  Counsel 

on  How  to  Grow  Straight 


Chapter  IX.    A  Factory  Fashion- 
plate ',  the  Magic  Shirt  Bosom,  and 
TVise  Counsel  on  How  to  Grow 
Straight 

THE  ring-spinning  room  is  generally 
the  center  of  fashion  in  a  cotton- 
mill.  The  reason  may  be  that  the 
ring-spinners,  at  least  in  New  Eng- 
land, are  generally  vivacious  French- 
Canadian  girls.  There  were  some  in  the  mill 
where  I  began  work,  who  possessed  an  inordinate 
thirst  for  ornament  and  dress.  The  ring-spin- 
ners had  clean  surroundings  and  much  easier 
work  than  their  sisters  in  the  weave-shed.  Their 
labor  was  more  genteel  than  that  of  their  sisters 
in  the  carding-room. 

Marie  Poisson,  who  ran  frames  which  I  cleaned 
and  oiled,  was  the  leader  of  fashion  in  the  room, 
and  well  she  was  fitted  for  it.  She  resembled  a 
sunflower  on  a  dandelion  stalk;  she  was  statu- 
esque even  in  working-dress,  and  when  you  saw 

[131] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

her  hands  you  wondered  how  she  ever  got 
through  the  day  without  gloves.  She  lived  on 
doughnuts,  frosted  cake,  cold  meats,  and  pickles, 
in  order  that  her  board  bill  might  remain  small 
and  allow  her  a  good  percentage  of  her  wages 
for  dress.  She  had  huge  coiffures  in  all  the  latest 
styles,  and  when  the  little  artistic  dabs  of  powder 
were  absent,  her  face  had  a  lean  and  hungry 
look.  Marie  was  a  splendid  specimen  of  com- 
pressed humanity:  she  must  have  suffered  the 
tortures  of  the  inquisition,  for  what  tiny  high- 
heeled  shoes  she  took  off  and  hid  in  the  waste 
can,  near  the  coat  hooks!  How  many  times  a 
day  did  I  see  her  pressing  her  hands  to  her  waist 
as  if  to  unbind  herself  and  get  a  good  gulp  of 
air!  How  stiff  her  neck  from  its  daily  imprison- 
ment in  a  high,  starched  collar!  At  that  time, 
a  certain  dainty,  mincing,  doubled-up  walk  was 
affected  by  the  fashionable  society  women  of  the 
country,  a  gait  which  was  characterized  as 
"The  Kangaroo  Walk!"  The  young  ladies  had 
to  go  in  training  for  this  fashion,  had  to  adjust 
the  body  and  the  general  carriage  to  a  letter  S 
mould,  before  the  mincing  daintiness  could  be 
shown.  Marie  was  the  first  in  the  spinning- 
room  to  attain  this  goal.  Her  success  inspired 
even  such  humble  imitators  as  Mary  and  Jane 
to  mould  themselves,  by  daily  posturings  and 
prancings,  in  a  wild  effort  to  attain  the  same  end. 

[132] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

The  inevitable  result  of  so  much  pride  and 
fashion  in  the  girls  was  to  make  the  young  men 
and  boys  pay  strict  attention  to  themselves; 
for  so  the  mixing  of  the  sexes  tends  everywhere, 
even  in  a  mill.  Probably  Mallet,  with  his  ex- 
cessive vanities,  had  been  produced  through 
such  contact.  In  any  case,  such  fashion  plates 
as  I  saw  were  merely  contrasts  which  brought  out 
my  own  insufficiencies.  The  first  sign  of  this 
influence  came  in  my  purchase  of  a  ten-cent 
celluloid  rose  which  had  a  perfumed  sponge  in 
its  heart,  which  could  be  filled  over  and  over 
again  when  the  scent  had  evaporated.  I  had  a 
ten-cent  bottle,  large  size,  of  Jockey  Club  for 
this  purpose,  which  I  also  spilled  over  my  hand- 
kerchiefs and  clothes,  and  went  to  the  mill  leav- 
ing a  perfumed  trail  behind  me.  As  I  could 
not  swagger  in  such  glaring  and  costly  shirts  as 
Mallet  wore,  several  changes  in  a  week,  I  bought 
from  a  fakir,  one  Saturday  night,  a  wonderful 
shirt  bosom,  for  ten  cents!  It  permitted  the 
wearer  instantly  to  change  the  pattern  of  his 
shirt  bosom  twelve  times,  ranging  all  the  way 
from  a  sober  ministerial  white,  going  through  the 
innocent  and  inoffensive  tints  and  checks,  and  at 
last  reaching  the  vivid,  startling  gambler's  stripes 
and  dots!  These  marvelous  effects  were  very 
simply  brought  about.  The  Magic  Bosom,  as  it 
was  called,  was  a  circular  piece  of  stiff  pasteboard 

[133] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

on  either  side  of  which  were  pasted  six  segments 
of  enameled  paper,  shaped  like  letter  V's,  just 
large  enough  to  fit  behind  the  lapels  of  the  vest. 
There  were  six  turns  of  the  circle  for  six  patterns 
on  one  side,  and  then,  by  merely  turning  the 
whole  thing  around,  the  other  six  effects  were 
possible.  The  only  trouble  was,  I  did  not  wear 
a  vest  in  the  mill,  and  so  could  only  use  it  to  and 
from  the  mill,  to  the  theater,  where  I  changed  it 
during  every  act,  and  took  care  that  others  should 
notice  the  magic  transformation.  I  wore  it  to  a 
Sunday  school  that  I  attended  intermittently, 
and  astonished  my  classmates  by  six  transforma- 
tions during  the  hour's  session ! 

Then  I  began  to  contrast  my  own  hair  with 
Mallet's  black  and  orderly  curls.  His  hair 
always  shone,  and  the  barber  kept  it  from  growing 
down  below  the  ear!  That  disturbed  me,  for 
neither  comb  nor  brush  could  part  mine  or  make 
it  stay  down.  I  was  so  disturbed  over  the  matter 
that  I  confided  in  my  aunt.  She  laughed,  and 
said  that  she  had  a  recipe  that  would  satisfy  me. 
She  sent  me  down  to  a  butcher  shop  for  a  large- 
sized  marrow  bone.  Then  she  had  me  produce 
my  large-sized  bottle  of  Jockey  Club.  After 
boiling  the  marrow  bone  in  water  for  two  hours, 
she  made  me  extract  the  marrow.  Then  I  had 
to  put  in  a  certain  amount  of  perfume  and  give 
the  whole  a  good  stirring.     Aunt  next  produced 

[134] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

a  cold-cream  jar,  and  put  the  decoction  in  and 
let  it  cool  over  night. 

In  the  morning  she  said,  "Now,  Al,  that's 
a  jar  of  the  best  hair  grease  you  could  buy  for 
money  anywhere.  It's  an  old  recipe  and  will 
not  only  make  the  hair  stay  in  place  but  is,  at 
the  same  time,  good  for  it.  It  makes  the  hair 
grow,  and  keeps  it  in  good  condition.  True 
enough  it  had  a  good  odor  to  it,  and  ivas  smooth 
like  the  stuff  the  barber  put  on  my  head  when 
he  cut  my  hair.  I  rubbed  some  on  my  head  that 
morning,  and  not  only  did  I  have  the  satisfaction 
of  seeing  my  hair  shine,  like  Mallet's,  but  it  also 
stayed  parted  in  the  middle!  I  went  to  the  mill 
that  morning,  with  my  cap  balanced  on  the  back 
of  my  head,  so  that  everybody  could  see  the  shine 
and  the  parting.  But  I  had  not  been  in  the 
mill  long  before  the  pomade  evaporated,  my  hair 
sprang  loose,  and  I  was  as  badly  off  as  before. 
By  bringing  the  jar  into  the  mill  I  managed  to 
remedy  that,  and  got  along  very  well  until  one 
of  the  doffers  rubbed  his  palm  over  my  head, 
discovered  the  grease,  sniffed  it,  and  told  all  over 
the  room  that  I  was  daubing  bear's  grease  on  my 
hair  to  keep  it  down. 

These  items  of  self-consciousness,  so  momen- 
tous to  me  at  the  time,  were  some  of  the  signs 
of  adolescence.  I  was  growing  very  rapidly,  and 
my  whole  self  was  in  a  whirl  of  change.    Every 

[135] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

bone  seemed  to  have  sprung  loose,  every  muscle 
seemed  to  be  expanding  at  once,  all  my  strength 
seemed  to  have  left  my  body!  My  bones  were 
sore  and  every  muscle  ached.  An  infinite 
weariness  and  dizziness  took  possession  of  me, 
day  and  night.  Sitting  or  standing  I  could  find 
no  rest.  When  I  bent  down,  I  suffered  undue 
pain;  when  I  reached  for  anything,  I  had  to  drop 
my  arms  before  I  had  attained  the  object.  I 
suffered  as  if  jackscrews  had  been  laid  at  all 
angles  in  my  body,  and  were  being  turned  and 
turned  day  and  night  without  any  stop.  I 
could  not  bend  and  reach  under  the  frames  to 
clean  them  without  excruciating  pain  sweeping 
over  me,  and  a  cold  sweat.  If  I  took  hold  of  a 
broom,  and  tried  to  sweep,  I  had  to  drag  the 
broom  wearily  after  the  first  few  moments.  I 
went  home  after  the  day's  work  as  tired  as  if  I 
had  been  holding  up  the  world  all  day.  And 
though  I  went  to  bed  soon  after  supper,  and  slept 
soundly  till  the  morning,  I  awoke  as  tired  as  if  I 
had  been  toiling  at  a  slave's  task  every  minute  of 
the  night. 

I  tried,  in  no  complaining  spirit,  to  describe 
my  feelings  to  my  aunt.  "  Why,  they're  nothing 
but  growing  pains,  Al,"  she  said.  "You  ought 
to  feel  proud  that  you're  going  to  be  a  tall  man. 
It'll  pass.  You  must  get  all  the  rest  you  can  by 
going  to  bed  right  after  supper.     That'll  help!" 

[136] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

But  she  never  said,  as  I  wanted  her  to  say, 
"Get  off  from  work  while  you're  suffering  so, 
and  don't  try  to  work  while  you're  in  that  condi- 
tion." 

During  this  period,  I  grew  to  be  supersensitive 
and  self-conscious.  I  had  a  high,  shrill  voice, 
of  which  I  was  not  aware  till  a  doffer  mimicked 
it  one  day.  It  was  a  small  matter  to  him,  but 
to  me  it  was  tragical.  It  wore  on  my  imagina- 
tion all  through  that  day,  it  haunted  me  that 
night,  it  intruded  itself  on  my  solitude  until  I 
inwardly  cried  and  grew  depressed. 

"What's  ailing  you,  lad?"  commented  my 
uncle  the  next  morning.  "You  look  as  if  you'd 
lost  your  best  friend?"  But  I  would  not  un- 
burden myself  of  the  load  of  guilty  feeling  that 
was  on  my  shoulders — guilt,  because  my  voice 
was  high,  shrill,  and  childish!  I  was  afraid  to 
meet  people  whom  I  knew  on  the  street,  and 
when  I  saw  one  I  knew  coming  towards  me,  I 
would  dash  to  the  opposite  side,  or,  if  escape  like 
that  were  impossible,  I  would  turn  towards  a 
shop-window  or  pretend  to  be  interested  in  a 
bit  of  dirt  on  a  curbstone. 

Mark  Waterhouse,  an  old  crippled  English- 
man, who  ran  the  elevator  and  with  whom  I 
talked  often  while  in  the  elevator-room,  seemed 
to  understand  me  thoroughly  when  I  told  him 
how  I  felt. 

[137] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

"Aye,  lad,"  he  said,  "it's  growing  tha'  art. 
Growing  swift,  too:  tall  like  a  bullrush.  It's 
bad  for  thee  to  be  in  this  'ot  room  an'  working. 
Tha'  needs  fresh  hair;  lots  on't.  Lots  o'  fresh 
hair  to  get  in  th'  blood  an'  bone,  like." 

"But  aunt  won't  let  me  stay  at  home,"  I  said. 

"Aye,"  grumbled  the  old  man  with  a  slow  nod 
of  his  head,  "they  all  say  it.  Th'll  do  that. 
It's  the  way  o'  th'  mill,  lad,  an'  we're  born  to  't. 
You  con  put  a  plank  ower  a  rose  bush  while  the 
shoots'r  young  an'  growing,  and  the  shoots'll 
turn  aside,  go  crook'd,  get  twisted,  but  the  bush 
will  grow,  lad,  spite  o'  the  plank.  This  work  and 
bad  air's  the  plank  on  top  o'  ye,  but  yeu'll  grow, 
spite  on't.  Yeu'll  grow,  for  God  started  ye 
growing  an'  ye  can't  stop  God.  But  yeu'll 
grow  bent  at'  shoulders,  legs'll  twist,  feet'll  turn, 
knees'll  bend  in!  Sure's  ye  live,  they  will. 
See  me,  lad,"  he  said,  "the  plank  was  on  top  o' 
me,  too.  I  went  int'  mill  at  nine,  an'  worked 
'ard  for  a  babby,  I  did!  Con  I  walk  straight? 
See  me,"  and  he  went  at  a  pathetic  hobble  across 
the  room,  one  knee  turned  in,  the  other  foot 
twisted  out  of  joint.  "That's  t'  way  it  took 
me,  lad,  when  I  was  in  your  shoes.  I'm  not  t' 
only  one,  either.  Th'  mills  full  on  'em!  Do  I 
freighten  ye,  lad?  Never  mind.  Do  your 
best,  spite  on't.  I  tell  ye  what!  Stretch  your 
arms   mony   times   through   t'   day.     Oxercise! 

[138] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

Oxercise!  Stretch  thy  muscles,  thy  legs,  an'  get 
all  the  chance  tha  con  so  tha'll  grow  spite  on't. 
Spite  o'  work,  bad  air  an'  all !  Strengthen  tha- 
sel',  lad.  Don't  let  twists,  knots,  an'  bends 
coom!" 

This  old  man's  counsel  made  a  deep  impression 
on  me.  In  terror  of  the  things  he  described,  and 
which  he  himself  was,  I  made  up  my  mind  that 
I  would  not  let  my  body  get  bent,  crooked,  or 
distorted,  so  I  did  as  he  said.  I  stretched  my- 
self to  my  full  height  many  times  a  day.  I 
exercised  with  weights  and  broom  handles,  even 
though  I  found  it  very  painful.  I  gulped  in  the 
fresh  air  when  out  of  the  mill,  and  walked  with 
my  chest  thrust  out,  a  stiff,  self-conscious, 
growing  lad,  fighting  ever  against  the  impend- 
ing tragedy  of  a  deformed  body. 


[139] 


Chapter  X.     "Peter  One-Leg- 

and-a-Half'>  and  His 

Optimistic  JVhistlers 


Chapter  X.  "Peter  One-Leg- 
and-a-Half"  and  His  Optimis- 
tic TVhistlers 

BY  the  middle  of  the  following  winter,  I 
had  entered  fully  into  all  the  privileges 
that  were  mine  by  virtue  of  my  labor 
in  the  mill.  The  background  of  all 
my  privileges  was  the  spending  money 
my  aunt  gave  me.  She  apportioned  me  money 
on  a  basis  which  kept  me  constantly  at  work. 
I  was  given  ten  cents  on  every  dollar  that  I 
brought  home.  This  made  me  ambitious  for 
advance.  It  made  me  keep  at  work  even  when 
I  should  have  been  at  home  on  a  sick  bed.  It 
drove  "  loafing  days  "  out  of  my  mind  entirely,  for 
spending  money  was  the  summun  bonum  of  my 
existence.  The  kind  of  things  I  craved,  the 
only  things  I  found  real  pleasure  in,  cost  money. 
I  attended  the  ten-cent  shows  in  the  theater 
on  Saturday  afternoons.  I  looked  forward 
throughout  the  week  to  a  glass  of  hot  beef-tea 
at  the  soda  fountain.  I  would  smack  my  lips 
long  in  anticipation  of  two-for-five  cream  puffs 

[143] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

or  a  five-cent  pork  pie.  They  meant  fully  as 
much  to  me,  then,  as  did  the  Horse  Show  or  a 
Paris  gown  to  the  aspiring  daughter  of  one  of 
the  mill  stockholders. 

Intermittently,  I  used  to  go  to  the  business 
section  of  the  city  alone,  and  stop  at  Cheap 
John's,  the  tobacconist's,  for  a  treat  of  second- 
hand novels.  There  was  a  squat,  gaudily  deco- 
rated Punch  standing  in  front  of  Cheap  John's, 
with  a  handful  of  chocolate  cigars  always  ex- 
tended to  the  passers-by.  Punch's  jester's  cap, 
with  the  bells  over  his  left  ear,  his  hooked  nose 
and  upturned  chin,  always  with  a  fixed  grin  on 
his  shiny  face,  always  seemed  a  human  goblin, 
saying,  "Come  in,  and  have  one  on  me!" 

The  interior  of  Cheap  John's  was  like  a  coun- 
try fair  Midway.  There  were  weight  machines, 
moving  pictures,  slot  instruments,  lung  testers, 
name-plate  makers,  guessing  machines,  card- 
wheels,  pool-tables,  racing  bulletins,  sport  scores, 
displays  of  sporting  apparatus,  of  tobacco  special- 
ties, of  colored  sporting  posters,  hat-cleaning 
wheels,  clothes-cleaning  tables,  shoe-blacking 
alcoves,  and  a  long  counter  on  which  were  heaped 
rows  on  rows  of  highly  colored,  second-hand 
Wild  West,  Sport,  Adventure,  and  Detective 
romances:  a  bundle  of  them  for  ten  cents!  A 
bundle  of  these  I  would  purchase,  listen  to  the 
men's  voices  that  came  from  the  dense  clouds 

[144] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

of  smoke,  and  then  I  would  race  home,  a  distance 
of  a  mile,  to  examine  more  closely  the  prizes  of 
the  night. 

The  next  day  being  Sunday,  I  had  the  priv- 
ilege of  staying  in  bed,  of  having  my  breakfast 
brought  to  me,  much  as  if  I  had  been  a  con- 
valescent gentleman.  My  aunt  would  find  me 
propped  up  in  bed,  with  the  novels  spread  over 
the  bed;  and  in  the  midst  of  a  detective  romance, 
always  read  first,  I  would  be  interrupted  by 
some  such  words  as  these:  "Well,  his  royal 
highness!  Will  he  have  bacon  and  eggs  and  a 
hot  cup  of  cocoa?"  I  would  merely  keep  on 
reading,  with  a  suppressed,  growled  "Yep!"  and 
after  breakfast,  though  it  would  be  a  pleasant 
day  outside,  I  would  sit  there  in  bed  and  read 
until  I  became  satiated  with  thrills,  disguised 
scouts,  burgled  safes,  triumphant,  last-chapter 
endings  of  "Justice  at  last!"  reunited  lovers  and 
pardoning  fathers,  when  I  would  dress,  have 
dinner,  and  go  out  into  a  slumberous  Sabbath 
afternoon,  to  stand  bored  on  a  street  corner  until 
dark,  when  the  gangs  of  the  city  moved  and 
planned  exciting  escapades. 

When  my  uncle  saw  me  reading  the  novels,  he 
interposed  with,  "That's  cheap  stuff,  Al,  and 
will  never  make  you  any  better.  You  want  to 
read  refining  things,  the  great  books.  There's 
many  an  exciting  one  that  is  exciting  without 

[145] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

being  cheap.  I  wish  you  would  let  me  plan  for 
you."  I  told  him  that  I  would  —  sometime, 
but  I  kept  on  reading  Cheap  John's  bargain- 
counter  literature. 

The  ten  and  a  half  hours  in  the  mill,  with 
its  humdrum  rattle,  its  high-pitched  hum,  the 
regularity  of  its  fixtures,  the  monotonousness 
of  its  routine,  bullied  my  nerves  into  a  tamed, 
cowed  stare.  Day  by  day,  day  by  day,  day  by 
day,  at  the  appointed  time,  in  the  instructed 
way,  with  the  same  broom  or  the  same-sized 
bunch  of  waste,  to  do  the  task!  And  there 
wanted  to  stir  in  me  a  schoolboy's  expression  of 
vitality,  a  growing  lad's  satisfaction  in  novelty! 
But  all  through  the  hours  of  light,  from  morning 
till  evening,  with  the  sun  arising  and  departing, 
I  had  to  listen  to,  and  keep  time  with,  the 
humming  of  wheels! 

Consequently,  when  my  feet  felt  the  outside 
world  at  night  or  on  Saturdays,  at  the  first  re- 
freshing feel  of  the  pure  air  which  took  that  deep- 
lodged  heat  from  my  white  cheeks,  I  always 
promised  myself  some  exciting  pleasure  ere  the 
day  passed,  to  stimulate  my  cowed  nerves  and 
make  me  a  boy  again. 

So  I  fell  heart  and  soul  into  the  scheme  of 
a  group  of  other  boys  who  worked  in  the  mill 
and  lived  near  me.  It  was  my  first  membership 
in  a  "gang."     It  was  presided  over  by  a  sturdy 

[146] 


Peter-one-leg-axd-a-half"  Led  Us  at  Night  over  High  Board  Fences 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

young  Irishman,  who,  because  he  had  lost  a  leg 
below  the  knee,  was  nicknamed, "  Peter  One-Leg- 
and-a-Half."  Peter  worked  in  the  mill,  and 
examined  cloth  in  the  weave  room.  He  thrilled 
our  jaded  nerves  very  successfully.  We  had 
ghost-play  at  night  on  the  street,  when  he  would 
spit  fire,  make  phosphorescent  writing  on  a 
tenement,  lead  a  line  of  sheeted  figures  soberly 
in  review  through  the  night,  and  close  the  per- 
formance by  hurling  a  battery  of  bad  eggs  at  us, 
his  admiring  audience.  Peter  was  King  of  the 
Night.  He  seemed  to  have  the  sight  of  a  cat 
and  the  cunning  of  a  fox.  He  led  us  at  night 
over  high  board-fences,  on  the  other  side  of 
which,  in  the  dark,  we  would  almost  choke  our- 
selves against  tight  clotheslines.  He  taught 
us  organized  play,  and,  wise  gang-leader  which 
he  unconsciously  was,  he  changed  our  adventures 
and  diversions  so  often  that  no  complaints  were 
made,  and  night  time,  with  Peter  in  it,  became 
the  thrilling  objective  during  my  winter  work. 
For  a  short  season,  in  the  winter,  the  whole 
gang  joined  the  club,  which  was  kept  for  mill- 
boys  and  was  supported  by  the  corporation  for 
which  I  worked.  There  were  work-benches, 
checker-rooms,  a  poorly  equipped  gymnasium, 
seemingly  always  in  the  possession  of  the  adults, 
and  every  now  and  then  an  entertainment 
occurred,  when  some  imported  entertainer  with 

[147] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

talent  would  be  invited  to  come  from  his  or  her 
aristocratic  home — with  a  group  of  "slummers," 
usually  and  divert  us.  We  thought  most  of 
them  very  tame,  resented  the  manual  training 
department  because  we  thought  ten  hour's  work 
sufficient  for  one  day,  and  got  what  pleasure 
we  could  from  the  entertainments.  One  man 
told  us,  among  other  things  in  a  memorable 
address,  to  "whistle  when  you're  happy  and 
whistle  when  you're  in  danger  of  feeling  mad. 
Whistling  gives  courage,  like  yells  at  a  football 
game.  Whistle,  boys,  whistle.  It's  a  sign  that 
your  courage  is  good!"  That  point  impressed 
itself  on  Peter,  too,  for  when  we  left  the  club 
that  night  at  nine  o'clock  (to  stay  on  the  streets 
till  ten),  he  lined  us  up  like  soldiers  in  review, 
and  thus  addressed  us,  "Company  halt  all  ready, 
whistle!"  We  put  our  fingers  in  our  mouths  and 
produced  a  profusion  of  vibrant  whistles,  which 
indicated  that  we  were  the  most  courageous 
and  happy  lads  in  the  world.  Then  Peter, 
stumping  ahead,  led  us  militantly  up  a  street, 
stooping  every  now  and  then  under  a  street 
lamp  to  call  out,  "All  the  happy  ones  whistle, 
you!" 


[148] 


Chapter  XL       Esthetic  Adven- 
tures made  possible  by  a 
Fifteen-Dollar  Piano 


Chapter  XL  Esthetic  Adven- 
tures made  possible  by  a  Fifteen- 
Dollar  Piano 

IT  was  late  in  that  winter  that  the  trading 
instinct  cropped  out  in  my  uncle  and  aunt. 
They  decided  to  open  a  candy-store  in  the 
tenement  where  we  lived.  For  this  pur- 
pose the  landlord  was  persuaded  to  allow 
them  to  use  the  bow  window  for  display  pur- 
poses. The  parlor  was  fitted  with  a  small 
counter,  a  large  store  lamp,  and  a  various  assort- 
ment of  sodas,  confectionery  and  pastry. 

That  was  a  prohibition  year  in  city  politics, 
and  the  tenement  thirst  was  pronounced  to  be 
"something  awful!"  Desperate  men  were  com- 
pelled to  go  away  on  holidays  and  Saturdays  to 
get  what  refreshment  they  could.  The  police 
were  on  keen  watch  for  illegal  selling.  They 
were  making  daily  raids  in  different  parts  of  the 
city.  Liquors  had  been  found  in  cellars,  hidden 
under  the  floors,  in  flasks  buried  in  the  bodies 
of  huge  codfish,  water-pipes  had  been  cut  off 

[151] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

from  the  main  pipes  and  tapped  to  barrels  of 
whisky  and  beer;  every  trick  possible  to  the  im- 
agination seemed  to  have  been  uncovered,  yet 
my  aunt  undertook  to  let  some  chosen  throats 
in  the  neighborhood  know  that  she  planned  to 
keep  a  supply  of  intoxicants  on  hand. 

I  was  asked,  at  night,  to  take  a  pint  of  whiskey 
here  and  there  to  some  shut-in  woman  like  Old 
Burnt  Jane,  a  cripple  from  a  fire,  who  always 
let  tears  fall  in  the  food  she  was  cooking  as  she 
said:  "Wait,  wait,  little  boy,  dearie.  I'll  get 
my  mon-ey  when  I've  got  this  taste  of  cheese  off; 
wait  like  a  good  little  boy!" 

Our  customers,  who  came  for  a  drink  at  any 
time,  had  a  secret  sign  whereby  they  could  ask  for 
intoxicants  without  mentioning  them  by  name. 
On  Sundays,  our  kitchen  would  be  filled  with 
men  and  women  having  their  thirsts  quenched. 
My  Aunt  Millie  rubbed  her  hands  with  satisfac- 
tion over  the  prosperous  business  she  did. 

But  one  Sunday  afternoon  there  came  three 
plain-clothes  men  to  the  shop.  The  alarm  had 
been  given,  and  Aunt  Millie  waited  for  the  raid 
with  no  outward  traces  of  fear.  There  were 
some  people  at  the  rear  of  the  house,  and  they 
were  engaged  in  a  very  busy,  "manufactured" 
conversation  about  "Charley's  throat  trouble" 
when  the  officers  came  in  the  back  to  investigate. 
If   they  sniffed  the  air    for  traces   of  whisky, 

[152] 


THROUGH  THE   MILL 

they  only  got  a  superabundance  of  "mint"  and 
"musk,"  "lozengers"  half  thrown  into  the  cus- 
tomers' mouths  by  Aunt  Millie.  A  "complete" 
investigation  was  made,  covering  the  back-yard, 
the  cellar,  the  kitchen,  the  counter,  and  the  bed- 
rooms, but  no  illegal  wares  were  found,  and  the 
officers  left  the  shop  in  chagrin.  As  they  left, 
my  Aunt  Millie  bent  her  fond  gaze  towards  a 
row  of  black  bottles  that  stood  in  a  row  in  the 
display  window,  marked,  "Ginger,"  "Spruce," 
and  "Birch." 

"You  dear  creatures,"  she  cried,  "what  a 
salvation  you  are!"  Whereat,  she  took  one  to 
the  back  room,  uncorked  it,  and  poured  out  a 
noggin  of  whiskey  apiece  for  each  of  her  custo- 
mers, and  the  "throat  trouble"  gave  way  to  a 
discussion  of,  "What  tasty  stuff  it  is,  this  whis- 
key!" 

Shortly  after  this,  my  uncle  was  discharged 
for  staying  out  from  work  one  morning,  after  a 
night  of  intoxication,  and  he  finally  secured  a 
new  position  in  the  South  End.  Rather  than 
have  the  fuss  of  going  to  his  work  on  the  street- 
cars, he  rented  a  house,  and  we  removed.  This 
house  was  a  cottage,  the  first  one  we  had  lived 
in  since  coming  to  America.  It  stood  on  a 
street  corner,  near  a  wide  square,  where  the 
thousands  of  cyclists  came  after  supper  for  road 
races,   "runs,"  and  a   circle   around   the   neck 

[153] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

of  land  which  jutted  out  into  Buzzards  Bay. 
Ours  was  the  show  place  of  that  neighborhood; 
from  the  branches  of  the  rotting  cherry  tree  in 
the  front  yard,  I  could  watch  the  crowds  come 
and  go,  without  the  trouble  of  going  away  from 
the  house.  Directly  opposite  us,  buried  in  a 
maze  of  maple  branches,  with  a  high-fenced 
yard  back  of  it,  stood  an  Orphan's  Home.  The 
street-car  line  terminated  in  front  of  our  door. 
It  was,  to  me,  a  very  aristocratic  neighborhood 
indeed.  I  felt  somewhat  puffed  up  about  it. 
There  were  several  saloons  within  a  few  minute's 
walk.  My  aunt  regarded  that  as  a  feature  not 
to  be  despised.  She  had  explained  to  uncle: 
"You  see  we  can  get  it  in  cans,  and  not  have  to 
go  and  sit  away  from  home  and  all  its  comforts." 

This  change  of  residence  meant  also  a  change 
of  work  for  me.  I  left  the  spinning-room,  left 
Curley,  Mallet,  Mary,  Zippy,  and  the  others, 
and  went  into  the  mule-room  to  learn  back- 
boying  with  my  uncle. 

The  mule-room  is  generally  the  most  skilled 
section  of  a  cotton-mill.  Its  machinery  is  more 
human  in  its  action  than  is  a  loom,  or  a  carding 
machine,  or  a  ring-spinning  frame.  There  are 
no  women  or  girls  in  a  mule-spinning  room. 
Men  spin  the  yarn,  and  boys  attend  to  the  wants 
of  the  machines  as  back-boys,  tubers,  and  doffers. 

One  Saturday  afternoon,  shortly  after  we  had 
[154] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

settled  in  our  new  home,  aunt  and  uncle  went 
cityward,  entered  a  music  store,  and  said,  "We 
want  to  look  over  a  piano." 

The  clerk  immediately  took  them  in  the 
direction  of  the  high-priced,  latest  models. 

"No,"  said  aunt,  "them's  not  the  ones  we 
want  to  buy.  Mister,  you  haven't  got  some- 
thing cheaper,  have  you?" 

"How  cheap?"  asked  the  clerk. 

"Well,"  said  my  aunt,  "I  shouldn't  care  to 
go  very  high.     Say  a  second-hander." 

The  clerk  took  them  to  the  rear  of  the  store, 
to  a  dim  corner.  Here  he  turned  on  the  light, 
and  showed  a  row  of  table-pianos.  Aunt  and 
uncle  stopped  before  one  of  them,  a  scratched, 
faded  veteran,  of  many  concert-hall  and  ball- 
room experiences.  Its  keys  were  yellow,  with 
black  gaps  where  some  were  missing.  One  of 
the  pedal  rods  was  broken  off,  while  the  other 
was  fastened  with  thin  wire.  Uncle,  with  pro- 
fessional nonchalance,  whirled  a  creaky  stool  to 
the  desired  height,  sat  down,  turned  back  his 
cuffs,  and  struck  a  handful  of  chords,  like  a  war- 
horse  in  battle  again,  with  a  vivid  reminiscence 
of  old  English  public-house  days.  There  came 
from  the  depths  of  the  aged  lyre  a  tinkling, 
tinpannish  strain  of  mixed  flats. 

"It's  real  good,"  smiled  my  aunt. 

"It  needs  tuning,"  commented  the  clerk. 
[155] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

"How  much  is  it  worth,  tuned?"  asked  my 
uncle. 

"Fifteen  dollars,"  announced  the  clerk. 

"On  time,  how  much?"  asked  aunt  eagerly. 
"We  can  only  put  in  three  dollars  on  this  at 
first,"  she  said. 

"Fifteen  dollars  on  credit,  at  your  own  terms," 
said  the  clerk,  after  a  brief  consultation  with  the 
manager  in  the  office.  "We  need  the  room,  and 
will  be  glad  to  get  it  out  of  the  way."  "It's 
ours,  then,"  said  my  uncle.  "Send  it  down  as 
soon  as  you  get  it  tuned,"  he  directed. 

When  they  told  me  about  the  purchase,  uncle 
announced,  "It  will  keep  me  at  home,  I  hope, 
and  away  from  the  saloons.  It  will  be  fine  to 
get  to  playing  again.  I  miss  it  so.  I  must  be 
all  out  of  practise." 

When  the  piano  did  come,  and  it  was  estab- 
lished in  the  front  room,  I  spent  a  whole  evening 
in  fingering  it.  There  was  only  one  defect  about 
it,  —  when  uncle  played  a  tune,  one  of  the  keys 
had  a  fault  of  sticking,  so  that  he  had  to  lift  it 
bodily  into  place,  and  that  somewhat  broke  in 
on  the  melody  he  was  engaged  on. 

"But  what  can  you  expect  for  fifteen  dollars," 
he  commented,  philosophically.  "When  folks 
are  singing  with  it,  I  can  skip  it,  an'  it  won't  be 
noticed  much." 

The  advent  of  the  piano  made  my  days  in  the 
[156] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

mill  lighter  to  bear.  My  uncle  had  proposed 
to  teach  me  to  play  on  it  at  night  if  I  would 
practise  faithfully.  He  took  pains  to  elaborate 
the  truth  that  great  musicians,  who  had  come 
to  fame  in  the  earth,  had  done  so  only  at  the 
cost  of  infinite  pains  in  practise. 

"Never  mind,"  I  responded,  "I'll  learn,  sure 
enough,  and  I  may  give  lessons  some  day." 
So,  during  work  hours,  I  was  given  the  scale  to 
memorize. 

"F,a,c,e,  is  the  name  of  the  spaces,"  he 
taught.  "Face,  it  spells;  you  can  remember 
that."  Then  he  had  me  memorize  the  notes  on 
the  lines,  and  then  he  let  me  try  it  on  the  piano, 
a  night  of  joy  to  me.  Day  after  day  I  would 
plan  for  these  practises,  and  in  three  regular 
lessons,  of  two  weeks'  duration,  I  had  the  joy 
of  grinding  out  my  first  real  four-part  tune. 
I  had  been  practising  laboriously,  with  a  strict 
regard  for  exact  time,  the  selection  he  had  set 
before  me,  when  he  called  from  the  kitchen, 
"Hurry  up  the  tune  a  bit,  Al!"  I  did,  and  I  was 
bewildered  to  find  that  the  chaotic  tangle  of 
notes  resolved  itself,  when  played  faster,  into 
the  simple,  universal  melody,  "Home,  Sweet 
Home!" 

But  I  found  not  enough  patience,  after  being 
in  the  mill  all  day,  to  isolate  myself  every  night 
in  the  house  when  there  was  fresh  air  to  enjoy 

[157] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

outside,  so  I  told  uncle  that  I  had  better  give 
up  taking  lessons.  I  could  not  keep  them  up. 
I  wanted  the  fresh  air  more. 

But  uncle  was  loath  for  me  to  do  that.  "I 
want  you  to  do  something  else  besides  work  in  the 
mill,"  he  remonstrated.  About  this  time,  I  be- 
came acquainted  with  Alf  Martin,  a  back-boy, 
who  was  playing  the  piano.  His  father  worked 
on  the  mules  next  to  my  uncle.  The  two  men 
talked  the  matter  over,  and  one  day  Alf  told 
me  that  the  woman  he  was  taking  lessons  from, 
a  Miss  Flaffer,  had  said  she  would  give  me  fifty- 
cent  lessons  for  thirty -five  cents!  My  uncle 
said  he  would  pay  half  of  the  cost,  and  in 
spite  of  my  previous  abandonment  of  music, 
I  succumbed  to  this  scheme,  secretly,  in  my 
heart,  glad  of  the  opportunity  of  taking  les- 
sons from  so  fme  a  lady  as  Alf  told  me  Miss 
Flaffer  was. 

"When  you  pay  for  lessons,"  said  my  uncle, 
"you'll  think  more  of  them.  I  could  only  take 
you  as  far  as  vamping,  and  you  want  to  do  more 
than  that." 

Previous  to  this,  I  had  gotten  as  much  joy, 
during  the  week's  work,  from  anticipations  of 
cream  puffs,  pork  pies,  and  such  minor  Saturday 
joys,  but  now  I  had  a  piano  lesson,  a  real  music- 
lesson,  to  engage  my  mind,  and  that  was  a  very 
cheerful  week  spent  behind  the  mules.     Alf  and 

[158] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

I  spent  much  time,  when  we  could  get  away 
from  the  eyes  of  the  bosses,  talking  over  Miss 
Flaffer,  and  I  came  to  understand  that  she  was  a 
fine  woman  indeed. 

The  following  Saturday  afternoon,  then,  I 
took  my  Beginner's  Book,  tied  it  in  a  roll  and 
fastened  it  with  twine,  and  went  on  the  street 
car  to  a  very  aristocratic  part  of  the  city.  It 
was  the  part  where,  on  first  landing  in  America, 
I  had  gone  on  summer  days,  asking  at  the  back 
doors  if  I  might  pick  the  pears  that  had  fallen 
to  the  lawns  from  the  trees. 

Miss  Flaffer's  house  was  a  very  small  cottage, 
with  a  small  piazza  at  its  front,  and  with  a  narrow 
lawn,  edged  by  a  low  fence,  running  around  it. 
It  was  altogether  a  very  pretty  place,  with  its 
new  paint,  its  neat  windows,  and  the  flowers 
between  the  curtains.  The  front  steps  had 
evidently  never  been  trodden  on  by  foot  of  man, 
for  why  did  they  shine  so  with  paint!  There 
was  not  a  scratch  on  the  porch,  nor  a  pencil 
mark.  I  looked  at  the  number,  at  the  engraved 
door-plate,  and  found  that  "S.  T.  Flaffer"  did 
reside  within.  A  great,  cold  perspiration  dripped 
from  me  as  I  put  a  trembling  finger  on  the  push- 
button. I  heard  an  answering  bell  somewhere 
in  the  depths  of  the  house,  and  then  wished  that 
I  might  run  away.  It  seemed  so  bold  a  thing 
for  me,  a  mill-boy,  to  be  intruding  myself  on 

[159] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

such  aristocratic  premises.  But  I  could  not 
move,  and  then  Miss  Flaffer  herself  opened  the 
door! 

Oh,  dream  of  neatness,  sweetness,  and  womanly- 
kindness  !  Miss  Flaffer  was  that  to  me  at  the 
moment.  She  was  a  picture,  that  put  away  my 
aunt  and  all  the  tenement  women  who  came 
into  our  house  for  beer-drinking,  put  them  away 
from  memory  entirely.  I  thought  that  she 
would  send  me  home,  and  tell  me  to  look  tidy 
before  I  knocked  at  her  door,  or  that  I  had  made 
a  mistake,  and  that  such  a  woman,  with  her 
white  hands,  could  not  be  giving  thirty -five  cent 
piano  lessons  to  Al  Priddy,  a  mill-boy! 

Oh,  how  awkward,  self-conscious,  and  afraid 
I  felt  as  I  went  across  that  threshold  and  looked 
on  comforts  that  were  luxuries  to  me!  There 
was  a  soft,  loose  rug  on  a  hardwood,  polished 
floor,  on  which,  at  first,  I  went  on  a  voyage  half- 
way, when  the  crumpled  rug  half  tripped  me  and 
I  caught  desperately  at  a  fragile  chair  and  half 
wrenched  it  from  position  to  stay  myself,  yet 
Miss  Flaffer  did  not  scold  me,  nor  did  she  seem 
to  notice  me.  Then,  as  we  went  through  a 
luxurious  dining-room  (where  they  did  nothing 
but  eat  meals!),  I  found  myself  bringing  my  foot 
down  on  the  train  of  Miss  Flaffer's  dress.  Yet, 
when  the  confusion  was  over,  she  never  made  a 
single  reference  to  it,  though  I  felt  that  I  ought 

[160] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

to  ask  her  if  I  had  torn  it.  She  led  me  to  a 
little  studio,  where,  in  a  curtained  alcove,  stood 
a  black  upright  piano  polished  like  a  mirror,  and 
before  it  a  stool,  which  did  not  squeak  like  ours 
when  turned  into  position. 

When  the  preliminary  examination  was  over, 
and  I  was  seated  at  the  piano,  Miss  Flaffer  asked 
me  to  play  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  as  I  had 
learned  under  my  uncle's  instruction.  I  had 
been  so  used  to  the  hard,  mechanical  working 
of  uncle's  instrument  that  I  naturally  pounded 
unduly  on  Miss  Flaffer's,  until  she  politely  and 
graciously  said,  "Please  do  not  raise  your  fingers 
so  high,"  and  to  that  end,  she  placed  two  coppers 
on  my  hand,  and  told  me  to  play  the  tune  without 
letting  them  drop. 

After  the  tune,  and  while  Miss  Flaffer  had 
left  the  room  to  get  her  notebook,  I  noted  with 
chagrin  that  my  perspiring  fingers  had  left 
marks  on  the  snowy  keyboard  where  they  would 
surely  be  seen.  I  listened,  and  heard  Miss 
Flaffer  rummaging  among  some  books,  and  then 
desperately  spat  on  my  coat  cuff  and  rubbed 
the  keyboard  vigorously  until  I  thought  that  I 
had  obliterated  the  traces  of  my  fingers.  Then 
Miss  Flaffer  returned,  and  I  tried  to  act  uncon- 
cernedly by  whistling,  under  my  breath,  "After 
the  Ball." 

By  the  time  the  lesson  was  over,  it  was  raining 
[161] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

outside,  and  Miss  Flaffer  said,  "I  have  to  go  to 
the  corner  of  the  next  street,  Albert.  (Albert!) 
I  want  you  to  share  my  umbrella  with  me  so 
that  you  will  not  get  wet." 

I  mumbled,  "All  right,  I  don't  care  if  I  do," 
and  prepared  to  go.  Before  we  had  left  the 
house  I  had  put  on  my  hat  twice  and  opened 
and  shut  the  door  once  in  my  extreme  excitement. 
Then  we  went  out,  and  there  rushed  to  my  mind, 
from  my  reading,  the  startling  question,  "How 
to  act  when  walking  on  the  street  with  a  fine 
woman,  and  there  is  an  umbrella?"  I  said, 
when  we  were  on  the  sidewalk,  "Please  let  me 
carry  that,"  and  pointed  to  the  umbrella. 
"Certainly,"  she  said,  and  handed  it  to  me. 
Before  we  had  attained  the  corner,  I  had  man- 
aged to  poke  the  ends  of  the  umbrella  ribs  down 
on  Miss  Flaffer's  hat,  and  to  knock  it  somewhat 
askew.  I  found,  also,  that  I  was  shielding 
myself  to  such  an  extent  as  to  leave  Miss  Flaffer 
exposed  to  the  torrents  of  rain.  On  the  street 
corner,  she  took  the  umbrella,  and,  as  my  car 
came  into  view,  she  said,  "Good-by,  Albert. 
You  did  very  well  to  day.  Practise  faithfully, 
and  be  sure  to  come  next  week."  I  called,  "So 
long,"  and  ran  for  the  car. 

I  only  took  two  other  lessons  from  Miss 
Flaffer.  I  never  had  the  manners  to  send  her 
word  that  I  could  no  longer  afford  them.     I 

[162] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

was  afraid  that  she  would  offer  to  teach  me  free, 
and  I  could  not  stand  the  confinement  to  the 
house  after  a  hard  day  in  the  mill.  But  I  had 
learned  something  besides  piano-playing  with 
her.  I  had  seen  fine  manners  contrasted  against 
my  own  uncouth  ways.  I  had  seen  a  dustless 
house  contrasted  against  my  own  ill-kept  home. 
I  had  been  called  Albert! 


[163] 


Chapter  XIL      Machinery 
and  Manhood 


. 


Chapter  XI L     Machinery   and 
Manhood 

MY   work    in    the    spinning-room,  in 
comparison    with    my    new    work 
in  the  mule-room,  had  been  mere 
child's   play.     At   last  the   terror 
of  the  mill  began  to  blacken  my 
life.     The  romance,  the  glamour,  and  the  charm 
were  gone  by  this  only  a  daily  dull,  animal-like 
submission  to  hard  tasks  had  hold  of  me  now. 

Five  days  of  the  week,  at  the  outer  edge  of 
winter,  I  never  stood  out  in  the  daylight.  I 
was  a  human  mole,  going  to  work  while  the  stars 
were  out  and  returning  home  under  the  stars. 
I  saw  none  of  the  world  by  daylight,  except  the 
staring  walls,  high  picket-fences,  and  drab  tene- 
ments of  that  immediate  locality.  The  sun  rose 
and  set  on  the  wide  world  outside,  rose  and  set 
five  times  a  week,  but  I  might  as  well  have  been 
in  a  grave;  there  was  no  exploration  abroad. 

The  mule-room  atmosphere  was  kept  at  from 
eighty-five  to  ninety  degrees  of  heat.  The 
hard-wood  floor  burned  my  bare  feet.     I  had 

[167] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

to  gasp  quick,  short  gasps  to  get  air  into  my 
lungs  at  all.  My  face  seemed  swathed  in  con- 
tinual fire.  The  tobacco  chewers  expectorated 
on  the  floor,  and  left  little  pools  for  me  to  wade 
through.  Oil  and  hot  grease  dripped  down 
behind  the  mules,  sometimes  falling  on  my  scalp 
or  making  yellow  splotches  on  my  overalls  or 
feet.  Under  the  excessive  heat  my  body  was 
like  a  soft  sponge  in  the  fingers  of  a  giant;  per- 
spiration oozed  from  me  until  it  seemed  inevit- 
able that  I  should  melt  away  at  last.  To  open 
a  window  was  a  great  crime,  as  the  cotton  fiber 
was  so  sensitive  to  wrind  that  it  wrould  spoil. 
(Poor  cotton  fiber !)  When  the  mill  was  working, 
the  air  in  the  mule-room  was  filled  with  a  swirling, 
almost  invisible  cloud  of  lint,  which  settled  on 
floor,  machinery,  and  employees,  as  snow  falls 
in  winter.  I  breathed  it  down  my  nostrils  ten 
and  a  half  hours  a  day;  it  worked  into  my  hair, 
and  was  gulped  down  my  throat.  This  lint  was 
laden  with  dust,  dust  of  every  conceivable  sort, 
and  not  friendly  at  all  to  lungs. 

There  are  few  prison  rules  more  stringent 
than  the  rules  I  worked  under  in  that  mule  room. 
There  are  few  prisoners  watched  with  sterner 
guards  than  were  the  bosses  who  watched  and 
ordered  me  from  this  task  to  that. 

There  was  a  rule  against  looking  out  of  a 
window.     The  cotton  mills  did  not  have  opaque 

[168] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

glass  or  whitewashed  windows,  then.  There  was 
a  rule  against  reading  during  work-hours.  There 
was  a  rule  preventing  us  from  talking  to  one 
another.  There  was  a  rule  prohibiting  us  from 
leaving  the  mill  during  work-hours.  We  were 
not  supposed  to  sit  down,  even  though  we  had 
caught  up  with  our  work.  We  were  never 
supposed  to  stop  work,  even  when  we  could. 
There  was  a  rule  that  anyone  coming  to  work 
a  minute  late  would  lose  his  work.  The  outside 
watchman  always  closed  the  gate  the  instant 
the  starting  whistle  sounded,  so  that  anyone 
unfortunate  enough  to  be  outside  had  to  go 
around  to  the  office,  lose  time,  and  find  a  stranger 
on  his  job,  with  the  prospect  of  being  out  of  work 
for  some  time  to  come. 

For  the  protection  of  minors  like  myself,  two 
notices  were  posted  in  the  room,  and  in  every 
room  of  the  mill.  They  were  rules  that  repre- 
sented what  had  been  done  in  public  agitation 
for  the  protection  of  such  as  I:  rules  which,  if 
carried  out,  would  have  taken  much  of  the  danger 
and  the  despair  from  my  mill  life.     They  read: 

''The  cleaning  of  machinery  while  it  is  in 
motion  is  positively  forbidden!" 

"All  Minors  are  hereby  prohibited  from  work- 
ing during  the  regular  stopping  hours!" 

If  I  had  insisted  on  keeping  the  first  law,  I 
should  not  have  held  my  position  in  the  mule 

[169] 


THROUGH  THE   MILL 

room  more  than  two  days.  The  mule-spinners 
were  on  piece  work,  and  their  wages  depended 
upon  their  keeping  the  mules  in  motion,  conse- 
quently the  back-boy  was  expected,  by  a  sort  of 
unwritten  understanding,  to  do  all  the  cleaning 
he^  could,  either  while  the  machines  were  in 
motion  or  during  the  hours  when  they  were 
stopped,  as  during  the  noon-hour  or  before  the 
mill  started  in  the  morning.  If  a  back-boy 
asked  for  the  mules  to  be  stopped  while  he  did 
the  cleaning,  he  was  laughed  at,  and  told  to  go  to 
a  very  hot  place  along  with  his  "nerve."  I 
should  have  been  deemed  incapable  had  I  de- 
manded that  the  machinery  be  stopped  for  me. 
The  spinner  would  have  merely  said,  "Wait  till 
dinner  time!" 

Not  choosing  to  work  during  the  stopping 
hour,  I  should  merely  have  been  asked  to  quit 
work,  for  the  spinner  could  have  made  it  impos- 
sible for  me  to  retain  my  position. 

So  I  just  adapted  myself  to  conditions  as  they 
were,  and  broke  the  rules  without  compunction. 
I  had  to  clean  fallers,  which,  like  teeth,  chopped 
down  on  one's  hand,  unless  great  speed  and  pre- 
cautions were  used.  I  stuck  a  hand-brush  into 
swift-turning  pulleys,  and  brushed  the  cotton 
off;  I  dodged  past  the  mules  and  the  iron  posts 
they  met,  just  in  time  to  avoid  being  crushed. 
Alfred  Skinner,  a  close  friend  of  mine,  had  his 

[170] 


\ 


The  Spinners  Would  not  Stop  their  Mules  while  I  Cleaned  the 

Wheels 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

body  pinned  and  crushed  badly.  I  also  tried 
to  clean  the  small  wheels  which  ran  on  tracks 
while  they  were  in  motion,  and,  in  doing  so,  I 
had  to  crawl  under  the  frame  and  follow  the 
carriage  as  it  went  slowly  forward,  and  dodge 
back  rapidly  as  the  carriage  came  back  on  the 
jump.  In  cleaning  these  wheels,  the  cotton 
waste  would  lump,  and  in  the  mad  scramble  not 
to  have  the  wheels  run  over  it  to  lift  the  carriage 
and  do  great  damage  to  the  threads,  I  would  risk 
my  life  and  fingers  to  extract  the  waste  in  time. 
One  day  the  wheel  nipped  off  the  end  of  my  little 
finger,  though  that  was  nothing  at  all  in  com- 
parison to  what  occurred  to  some  of  my  back-boy 
friends  in  other  mills.  Jimmy  Hendricks  to-day 
is  a  dwarfed  cripple  from  such  an  accident. 
Hern  Hanscom  has  two  fingers  missing,  Earl 
Rogers  had  his  back  broken  horribly.  Yet  the 
notices  always  were  posted,  the  company  was 
never  liable,  and  the  back-boy  had  no  one  but 
himself  to  blame;  yet  he  could  not  be  a  back-boy 
without  taking  the  risk,  which  shows  how  much 
humanity  there  can  be  in  law. 

Legally  I  worked  ten  and  a  half  hours,  though 
actually  the  hours  were  very  much  longer. 
The  machinery  I  could  not  clean  while  in  motion, 
and  which  the  spinner  would  not  stop  for  me  dur- 
ing work-hours,  I  had  to  leave  until  noon  or 
early  morning.     Then,  too,  the  spinner  I  worked 

[171] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

for  paid  me  to  take  over  some  of  his  work  that 
could  be  done  during  the  stopping  hours,  so  that 
there  was  a  premium  on  those  valuable  hours, 
and  I  got  very  little  time  out  of  doors  or  at  rest. 
There  were  generally  from  three  to  four  days  in 
the  week  when  I  worked  thirteen  and  thirteen 
hours  and  a  half  a  day,  in  order  to  catch  up  with 
the  amount  of  work  that  I  had  to  do  to  retain 
my  position. 

In  all,  at  this  time  I  had  five  men  over  me 
who  had  the  right  to  boss  me.  They  were:  two 
spinners,  the  overseer,  second  hand,  and  third 
hand.  One  of  the  spinners  was  a  kindly  man, 
very  considerate  of  my  strength  and  time,  while 
the  other  was  the  most  drunken  and  violent- 
tempered  man  in  the  room.  He  held  his  position 
only  by  virtue  of  having  married  the  overseer's 
sister.  He  was  a  stunted,  bow-legged  man, 
always  in  need  of  a  shave.  He  wagged  a  profane 
tongue  on  the  slightest  provocation,  and  tied  to 
me  the  most  abusive  epithets  indecency  ever 
conjured  with.  He  always  came  to  work  on 
Monday  mornings  with  a  severe  headache,  a 
sullen  mood,  and  filled  himself  with  Jamaica 
ginger,  which,  on  account  of  its  percentage  of 
alcohol,  served  him  the  same  palatable,  stimula- 
ting, and  satisfying  functions  of  whisky  without 
making  him  unfit  to  walk  up  and  down  his  alley 
between  his  dangerous  mules. 

[172] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

By  having  to  be  in  the  mill  when  the  machinery 
was  stopped,  I  was  forced  to  listen  to  the  spinners 
as  they  held  their  lewd,  immoral,  and  degenerate 
conversation.  It  was  rarely  that  a  decent  sub- 
ject was  touched  upon;  there  seemed  to  be  few 
men  there  willing  to  exclude  profligacy  from  the 
rote.  This  was  because  "Fatty"  Dunding,  a 
rounded  knot  of  fat,  with  a  little  twisted  brain 
and  a  black  mouth,  was  the  autocrat  of  the  circle, 
and,  withal,  a  man  who  delighted  to  talk  openly 
of  his  amours  and  his  dirty  deeds.  As  there 
were  no  women  or  girls  in  the  room,  significant 
words  and  suggestive  allusions  were  shouted 
back  and  forth  over  the  mules,  whisperings,  not 
too  low  for  a  skulking,  fascinated  boy,  hidden 
behind  a  wastebox,  to  drink  in,  were  in  order 
during  the  noon  hour.  The  brothel,  the  raid  of 
a  brothel,  the  selling  of  votes,  and  references  to 
women,  formed  the  burden  of  these  conferences. 
Occasionally  some  spinner  would  "Hush"  out 
loud,  there  would  be  a  warning  hand  held  up, 
but  only  occasionally. 

God  had  not  endowed  me  with  any  finer 
feelings  than  most  of  the  lads  I  worked  with, 
but  outside  the  mill  I  put  myself  in  closer  touch 
with  refining  things  than  some  of  them :  reading, 
occasional  attendance  on  a  Sunday  school  and  a 
mission,  and  in  me  there  was  always  a  never-to- 
be-downed  ambition  to  get  an  education.     That 

[173] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

is  why  those  conversations  I  was  forced  to  hear 
were  like  mud  streaks  daubed  with  a  calloused 
finger  across  a  clear  conscience.  It  was  like 
hearkening  to  the  licking  of  a  pig  in  a  sty  after 
God  in  His  purity  has  said  sweet  things.  I  felt 
every  fine  emotion  toward  womankind,  and  tow- 
ard manhood,  brutalized,  impiously  assaulted. 
I  felt  part  of  the  guilt  of  it  because  I  was  linked 
in  work  with  it  all.  That  mule-room  and  its 
associations  became  repugnant.  My  spirit  said, 
"I  will  not  stand  it."  My  will  said,  "You'll 
have  to.     What  else  can  you  do?" 

That  became  the  question  which  held  the 
center  of  the  state  in  my  rebellion  against  the 
mill.     "What  else  could  I  do?" 

I  wanted  an  education.  I  wanted  to  take 
my  place  among  men  who  did  more  than  run 
machines.  I  wanted  to  "make  something  of 
myself." 

The  arousement  of  this  ambitious  spirit  in  me 
was  curiously  linked  with  the  reading  of  a  great 
number  of  five-cent  novels  which  had  to  do  with 
the  "Adventures"  of  Frank  Merriwell.  This 
young  hero  was  a  manly  man,  who  lived  an  ideal 
moral  life  among  a  group  of  unprincipled,  unpop- 
ular, and  even  villainous  students  at  Yale  College. 
Frank  had  that  Midas  touch  by  which  every 
character  he  touched,  no  matter  how  sodden, 
immediately    became    changed    to    pure    gold. 

[174] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

Frank  himself  was  an  intense  success  in  every- 
thing he  did  or  undertook.  He  preached  tem- 
perance, purity  of  speech,  decency,  fairness,  and 
honor.  He  had  both  feet  on  the  topmost  prin- 
ciple in  the  moral  code.  True,  with  romantic 
prodigality  he  did  everything  under  any  given 
conditions  with  epic  success.  If  he  went  to  a 
track-meet  as  a  spectator,  and  the  pole  vaulter 
suddenly  had  a  twisted  tendon,  Frank  could 
pull  off  his  coat,  take  the  pole  and  at  the  first 
try,  smash  all  existing  records.  A  Shakesperian 
actor  would  be  suddenly  taken  ill,  and  Frank 
would  leap  from  a  box,  look  up  the  stage  man- 
ager, dress,  and  take  the  role  so  successfully  that 
everybody  would  be  amazed  at  his  art.  It  was 
the  same  with  all  branches  of  sport,  or  study,  of 
social  adventure  —  he  did  everything  in  cham- 
pionship form.  But  back  of  it  all  were  good 
habits,  fair  speech,  heroic  chivalry,  and  Christian 
manliness,  and  the  reading  of  it  did  me  good, 
aroused  my  romantic  interest  in  college,  made 
me  eager  to  live  as  clean  a  life  as  Frank  amidst 
such  profligacy  as  I  had  to  meet.  That  reading 
spoiled  me  ever  after  for  the  mill,  even  if  there 
had  been  nothing  else  to  spoil  me.  I,  too,  a  poor 
mill  lad,  with  little  chance  for  getting  money, 
with  so  sober  a  background  as  was  against  my 
life,  wanted  to  make  my  mark  in  the  world  as 
the  great  figures  in  history  had  done.     I  immedi- 

[175] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

ately  made  a  special  study  of  the  literature  of 
ambition.  I  took  the  Success  Magazine,  read 
the  first  part  of  Beecher's  biography,  where  he 
made  a  table-cloth  of  an  old  coat,  and  fought 
through  adverse  circumstances.  I  fellowshipped 
with  Lincoln  as  he  sprawled  on  the  hearth  and 
made  charcoal  figures  on  the  shovel.  I  felt  that 
there  must  be  something  beyond  the  mill  for 
me.  But  the  question  always  came,  "What 
else  can  you  do?" 

And  the  question  had  great,  tragic  force,  too. 
I  had  not  strength  enough  to  make  a  success  in 
the  mule-room.  I  had  an  impoverished  supply 
of  muscle.  My  companions  could  outlift  me, 
outwork  me,  and  the  strenuous,  unhealthy 
work  was  weakening  me.  The  long  hours  with- 
out fresh  air  made  me  faint  and  dizzy.  One  of 
the  back-boys,  himself  a  sturdy  fellow,  in  fun, 
poked  my  chest,  and  when  I  gave  back  with  pain, 
he  laughed,  and  sneered  "Chicken-breasted!" 
That  humiliated  me,  and  I  might  have  been 
found  thereafter  gasping  in  the  vitiated  air, 
enthused  by  the  hope  that  I  could  increase  my 
chest  expansion  a  few  inches;  and  I  also  took  small 
weights  and  worked  them  up  and  down  with  the 
intention  of  thickening  my  muscles! 

"What  else  can  you  do?"  That  haunted  me. 
It  would  not  be  long  before  I  should  have  to  give 
in:  to  tell  my  overseer  that  I  had  not  strength 

[176] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

enough  to  do  the  work.  Yet,  as  if  Fate  had 
obsessed  me  with  the  idea,  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  think  that  the  world  was  open  to 
exploration;  that  there  were  easier  tasks.  I 
was  curiously  under  the  power  of  the  fatalistic, 
caste  thought,  that  once  a  mill  boy,  always  a  mill 
boy.  I  could  not  conceive  there  was  any  other 
chance  in  another  direction.  That  was  part  of 
the  terror  of  the  mill  in  those  days. 

So  that  dream,  "to  make  something  of  my- 
self," with  a  college  appended,  only  made  my 
days  in  the  mill  harder  to  bear.  When  the  sun 
is  warm,  and  you,  yourself  are  shut  in  a  chilly 
room,  the  feeling  is  intensified  tragedy. 

But  day  after  day  I  had  to  face  the  thousands 
of  bobbins  I  had  in  charge  and  keep  them 
moving.  Thousands  of  things  turning,  turn- 
ing, turning,  emptying,  emptying,  emptying, 
and  requiring  quick  fingers  to  keep  moving. 
A  fight  with  a  machine  is  the  most  cunning 
torture  man  can  face  —  when  the  odds  are  in 
favor  of  the  machine.  There  are  no  mistaken 
calculations,  no  chances  with  a  machine  except 
a  break  now  and  then  of  no  great  consequence. 
A  machine  never  tires,  is  never  hungry,  has  no 
heart  to  make  it  suffer.  It  never  sleeps,  and 
has  no  ears  to  listen  to  that  appeal  for 
"mercy,"  which  is  sent  to  it.  A  machine  is  like 
Fate.     It   is   Fate,   itself.     On,   on,   on,   on   it 

[177] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

clicks,  relentlessly,  insistently,  to  the  end,  in  the 
set  time,  in  the  set  way!  It  neither  goes  one 
grain  too  fast  or  too  slow.  Once  started,  it  must 
go  on,  and  on,  and  on,  to  the  end  of  the  task. 
Such  was  the  machine  against  which  I  wrestled 
—  in  vain.  It  was  feeding  Cerebus,  with  its 
insatiable  appetite.  The  frames  were  ever  hun- 
gry; there  was  always  a  task  ahead,  yes,  a 
dozen  tasks  ahead,  even  after  I  had  worked, 
exerted  myself  to  the  uttermost.  I  never  had 
the  consolation  of  knowing  that  I  had  done  my 
work.     The  machine  always  won. 

I  did  take  a  rest.  I  had  to  steal  it,  just  as  a 
slave  would.  I  had  to  let  the  machine  go  on, 
and  on,  and  on  without  me  sometimes,  while  I 
took  a  rest  and  let  the  tasks  multiply.  That 
meant  double  effort  after  I  got  up,  getting  in  the 
mill  a  little  earlier  on  the  morrow,  a  shorter  time 
for  dinner  at  noon.  The  tasks  had  to  be  done  in 
the  end,  but  I  took  some  rest.  I  hid  from  the 
eyes  of  the  overseer,  the  second  hand,  the  third 
hand,  and  the  spinners,  behind  waste  boxes  and 
posts,  and  had  spare  minutes  with  a  book  I  had 
brought  in  and  hidden  under  some  cotton,  or  with 
dreaming  about  "making  something  of  myself, 
some  day."  If  I  let  myself  dream  beyond  the 
minute,  a  vile  oath  would  seek  me  out,  and  I 
would  hear  my  Jamaica-ginger-drinking-spinner 

sneering, "  You  filthy !  Get  that  oiling  done ! " 

[178] 


Chapter  XI I L      How  my  Aunt 

and  Uncle  Entertained 

the  Spinners 


* 


Chapter  XIII.  How  my  Aunt 
and  Uncle  Entertained  the 
Spinners 

MEANTIME  there  was  poor  consola- 
tion in  my  home.  Aunt  and 
uncle  were  drinking  every  night. 
Aunt,  with  the  advantage  over 
my  uncle,  was  drinking  much 
during  the  day. 

When  our  dinners  came,  carried  by  a  neigh- 
bor's boy,  they  were  generally  cold,  cheerless 
combinations  of  canned  tongue,  store  bread 
lavishly  spread  with  butter,  jelly  roll,  and  a 
bottle  of  cold  soda  water,  either  strawberry  or 
ginger  flavor !  We  knew  what  that  sort  of  dinner 
meant.  Aunt  Millie  was  drunk  at  home,  too 
much  intoxicated  to  make  a  warm  dinner.  We 
had  to  work  through  the  afternoon,  knowing 
that  when  we  arrived  home  at  night  we  should 
find  her  either  at  a  saloon,  in  a  back  room  at  a 
neighbor's,  or  at  home,  helpless,  incoherent. 
"Oh,  Al,"  sighed  my  uncle,  "I  don't  see  what 
[181] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

we're  coming  to.  What's  the  use  of  you  and  me 
slaving  here  and  she  taking  on  so?  Do  you  won- 
der, lad,  that  it's  hard  for  me  to  keep  a  pledge? 
It  just  drives  me  mad.  Here  we  have  to  go  on 
through  the  day,  working  ourselves  to  death, 
only  to  have  the  money  go  in  that  way!  It's 
torture,  and  always  sets  me  off  into  drink,  too!" 

When  we  arrived  home  on  such  nights,  uncle 
would  have  stored  up  an  afternoon  of  wrath,  and, 
on  entering  the  house,  would  unload  it  on  aunt. 
She  would  work  herself  into  an  hysterical  parox- 
ysm, screaming,  shrieking,  pawing,  and  frothing 
at  the  mouth,  so  that  uncle  would  suddenly 
leave  her  to  me  and  go  off  for  the  night  to  a 
saloon. 

In  the  morning,  when  both  were  sober,  would 
occur  the  real  disheartening  quarrel,  when  aunt 
would  tell  uncle  he  lied  if  he  said  she  had  been 
drunk;  the  words  would  get  more  and  more 
heated  until,  in  an  unbearable  fit  of  rage,  insults 
would  be  exchanged  and  lead  up  to  a  struggle, 
a  bloody  struggle,  that  sometimes  was  on  the 
threshold  of  murder. 

That  day  there  would  be  no  dinner  for  us  at 
all,  and  I  would  have  to  run  out  to  the  gates  and 
buy  something  like  an  apple-roll  or  a  pie.  At 
night  we  would  find  aunt  sitting  down,  perfectly 
sober,  but  silent,  and  with  no  supper  ready. 

"Get  it  yourself,  you  old  fiend,"  she  would 
[182] 


T  PI  ROUGH  THE  MILL 

announce.  Uncle  would  leave  the  house  and 
get  his  meal  in  an  eating-house,  while  aunt 
would  make  me  a  supper  and  scold  me  while  I 
ate  it,  for  she  always  considered  me  as  one  of  her 
secret  enemies,  and  linked  my  name  with  my 
uncle's  in  almost  every  quarrel. 

But  there  were  few  quarrels  of  long  standing 
between  my  foster-parents.  They  were  gener- 
ally patched  up  with  a  drink  or  two.  Then  the 
wheel  would  turn  again  and  produce  exactly  the 
same  conditions  as  before. 

One  day,  uncle,  in  a  noble-minded  effort  to 
get  away  from  temptation,  told  us  that  he  had 
decided  to  board  in  another  place,  where  he 
could  live  in  peace.  But  aunt  visited  all  the 
boarding-houses  that  she  knew,  finally  found  her 
husband  in  one  at  the  North  End,  and  scolded 
him  so  unmercifully,  and  unloaded  so  much 
weight  of  family  history,  that  he  came  back  to 
the  South  End  with  her  on  the  car,  took  a  pail, 
and  brought  back  a  quart  of  beer,  and  things 
went  on  as  before. 

After  we  had  established  our  piano,  and  when 
uncle  had  become  well  acquainted  with  the 
spinners,  he  proposed  to  invite  some  of  them 
with  their  wives  for  a  "house-warming." 

The  event  occurred  on  a  Saturday  night. 
"Fatty"  Dunding  came,  and  brought  an  un- 
known woman  with  him,  whom  he  tickled  under 

[183] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

the  chin  in  play  quite  often,  and  told  her  that 
she  was  a  "stunner  in  that  new  piece  of  hair, 
even  better  looking  than  in  t'other  lighter 
shade!"  Tom  Fellows,  a  tall  man  with  a  poetic 
face,  brought  his  wife  and  child,  a  baby  of  seven 
months.  There  was  a  bass-voiced  spinner  named 
Marvin  present,  and  he  brought  a  roll  of  music 
with  him. 

"What  hast'  got  in,  Stanny?"  asked  "Fatty." 
"Summat  to  warm  cockles  o'  t'  'eart?" 

Uncle  told  him  that  there  was  half  a  barrel  of 
beer  in  the  cellar:  that  there  were  several  bottles 
of  portwine  in  the  pantry,  and  that  there  was  a 
taste  of  whiskey  and  a  few  softer  drinks  on  hand. 

By  eight  o'clock  the  program  began  to  shape 
itself.  Marvin  undid  his  roll,  at  the  first  re- 
quest, placed  before  my  uncle  a  copy  of  "White 
Wings,"  and  asked,  as  the  Hadfield  bassoes  had 
in  the  former  days  in  the  parlors  of  the  "  Linnet's 
Nest,"  and  the  "  Blue  Sign,"  "Can  t'  play  it?" 

And  uncle  responded,  "Hum  it  o'er!"  Mar- 
vin bent  down  his  head  as  if  in  the  act  of  telling 
a  secret,  hummed  it  over  for  a  few  bars,  when 
uncle,  after  fingering  with  his  chords,  struck 
the  pitch,  and  began  to  vamp  gloriously. 

"Wait  till  I  play  t'  introduction,"  he  said,  and 
he  hunched  back,  and  confidently  "introduced" 
the  air  to  the  satisfaction  of  all.  Marvin  sang 
"White  Wings,"  and  after  he  had  dampened 

[184] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

his  pipe  with  a  noggin  of  whiskey,  he  asked  uncle 
if  he  knew  "I  am  a  Friar  of  Orders  Grey?" 

Uncle  said,  again,  "Hum  it  o'er."  When  the 
introduction  had  been  given,  Marvin  began  a 
tumbling  performance  on  the  low  notes  that 
won  great  applause. 

"Tha'  went  so  low,  lad,  that  we  couldna'  'ear 
thee,  eh,  folks?"  grinned  "Fatty." 

"Hear,  hear!  Hen-core,  hen-core!"  shouted 
the  audience,  but  Marvin  said  that  he'd  better 
rest.     Singing  low  tickled  his  whistle  unduly. 

But  uncle  knew  "Sally  In  Our  Alley,"  which 
Tom  Fellows  sang  with  a  lift  of  his  light  brows 
at  the  high  notes,  and  a  crinkling  of  his  chin  as 
he  bent  his  head  to  get  the  low  ones.  Tom  had 
almost  a  feminine  voice;  a  romantic  chord  ran 
through  all  his  singing,  so  that  he  was  at  his 
best  in  an  original  song  of  his,  which  he  had 
written  shortly  before  and  was  having  the  band- 
master set  to  four-part  music  for  the  piano. 
"Hum  it,"  said  uncle.  And  Tom  went  through 
the  usual  process  until  uncle  had  the  key,  the 
time,  and  the  chords.  Tom's  song,  which  was 
later  published  at  his  own  expense,  began: 

"  Bright  was  the  day, 
Bells  ringing  gay, 

When  to  church  I  brought  my  Sue. 
I  felt  so  proud 

'Mongst  all  the  crowd" — 

[185] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

and  Uncle  Stanwood  considerably  increased  his 
reputation  for  improvisation  when  at  the  end 
of  the  verse,  where  Tom  lingered  lovingly  on 
the  sentiment  to  the  extent  of  four  full  rests,  he 
introduced  a  set  of  trills! 

With  this  part  of  the  program  over,  the  com- 
pany retired  to  the  cellar,  where  there  was  a 
boarded  floor,  a  man  with  a  concertina,  and  a 
half-barrel  of  beer.  There  followed  a  square 
dance  and  some  more  singing,  but  the  beer  was 
the  chief  enjoyment. 

It  was  not  long  before  drink  had  inflamed  the 
peculiarities  of  temper  of  our  guests.  "Fatty" 
let  loose  his  oaths  and  his  foul  speech,  while  Uncle 
Stanwood  nearly  got  into  a  fight  with  him  over 
it,  but  was  prevented  by  Tom  Fellows  falling 
against  him,  in  a  drunken  lurch,  thereby  divert- 
ing the  issue.  My  aunt's  tongue  had  a  sting 
to  it,  and  she  was  in  a  corner  telling  Mrs.  Fellows 
that  she,  Mrs.  Fellows,  was  not  married  to  Tom, 
or  else  she  would  have  her  marriage  certificate 
framed  in  the  house,  or,  at  least,  could  show  it 
in  the  photograph  album!  Marvin  was  roaring 
"Rule  Britannia,"  with  the  energy  and  incohe- 
rency  of  a  bull.  I  told  "Fatty"  that  he  had 
better  go  home  or  else  I  would  send  for  the  police, 
and  when  he  aimed  his  fist  at  my  head,  I  merely 
dodged  and  he  fell  with  a  crash  to  the  floor  and 
went  off  into  a  piggish  snoring.     Tom  Fellows 

[186] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

took  his  drunken  leave,  forgetting  his  wife,  who 
was  just  then  calling  my  aunt  a  series  of  uncom- 
plimentary names.  In  some  sort  of  way,  our 
guests  left  us  in  the  early  morning.  Then  I 
saw  that  aunt  and  uncle  were  safely  to  sleep 
where  they  chanced  to  have  stumbled,  turned 
out  the  lamps,  locked  the  door,  and  went  to 
bed. 

The  next  morning  the  Sabbath  sun  lighted 
up  a  sickening  memento  of  the  house-warming. 
Glasses  were  scattered  about  with  odorous  dregs 
of  liquor  in  them.  Chairs  were  overturned,  and 
there  were  big  splotches  on  the  tablecloth  in  the 
kitchen,  where  port  wine  had  been  spilled.  There 
was  a  lamp  still  burning,  which  I  had  overlooked, 
and  it  was  sending  out  a  sickly,  oily  fume.  The 
house  was  like  a  barroom,  with  bottles  scattered 
about  the  kitchen,  clothes  that  had  been  left, 
and  my  foster  parents  yet  in  a  drunken  sleep 
where  I  had  left  them! 

When  Monday  morning  came,  uncle  was  unfit 
to  go  to  work.  He  told  Aunt  Millie  so,  and  she 
immediately  scolded  him  and  worked  herself 
in  so  violent  a  rage  that  the  matter  ended  by 
uncle  picking  up  some  of  his  clothes  and  saying, 
"This  is  the  last  you'll  see  of  me,  Dame!  I'm 
going  to  some  other  place  where  I'll  be  away 
from  it.  Al,  there,  can  keep  you  on  his  four 
dollars  a  week — if  he  wants!     I'm  done!" 

[187] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

"And  how  about  the  debts,  you  —  coward!" 
cried  aunt.  "I'll  send  the  police  after  you, 
mind!" 

"Let  debts  go  to  the  dogs,"  said  my  uncle. 
"You'll  always  manage  to  have  the  beer-wagon 
call!"     And  then  he  left  the  house. 

He  did  not  come  to  work  that  morning,  and 
when  the  overseer  asked  me  where  he  was,  I 
said  that  uncle  had  left  home  and  would  not 
be  back,  so  a  spare  man  was  put  on  uncle's 
mules. 

That  day,  opened  with  such  gloom,  was  one 
of  thick  shadows  for  me.  The  outlook  was 
certainly  disheartening.  Why  should  I  have 
to  stand  it  all?  It  was  my  wages  that  were 
making  some  of  this  squalor  possible.  It  was 
my  money  that  helped  purchase  the  beer.  Then 
the  old  question  obtruded  itself:  "What  other 
thing  can  you  do?  You'll  have  to  stay  in  the 
mill!" 

I  lost  my  heart  then.  I  saw  no  way  out  from 
the  mill,  yet  I  knew  that  in  the  end,  and  that 
not  long  removed,  the  mill  would  overpower  me 
and  set  me  off  on  one  side,  a  helpless,  physical 
wreck.  It  was  just  a  matter  of  a  year  or  two, 
and  that  waiting  line  of  out-of-works,  which 
always  came  into  the  mule-room  in  the  morning, 
would  move  up  one,  as  the  head  boy  was  given 
my  place. 

[188] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

Late  in  that  afternoon,  with  the  hands  on  the 
clock  going  slower  than  ever,  and  the  bitterness 
of  my  life  full  before  me,  I  began  to  think  of 
suicide.  I  imagined  that  it  would  be  the  easiest 
and  safest  exit  from  it  all.  It  would  end  the 
misery,  the  pain,  the  distraction,  and  the  im- 
pending uselessness  of  my  body  for  work!  It 
was  so  easy,  too.  I  took  up  a  three-pound 
weight,  and  put  it  on  a  pile  of  bobbins  high  above 
my  head.  I  balanced  it  on  the  edge  where  the 
merest  touch  would  allow  it  to  crash  to  the  floor. 
Then  I  experimented  with  it,  allowing  it  to  fall 
to  see  how  much  force  there  was  to  it.  I  specu- 
lated as  to  whether  it  would  kill  me  instantly  or 
not.  It  was  a  great  temptation.  It  just  meant 
a  touch  of  the  finger,  a  closing  of  the  eyes,  a 
holding  of  the  breath,  and  it  would  be  over! 
I  tried  to  imagine  how  sorry  and  repentant  my 
aunt  and  uncle  would  feel.  It  might  make 
them  stop  drinking.  It  was  worth  doing,  then. 
But  suddenly  there  loomed  up  the  fact  that 
there  are  two  sides  to  a  grave,  and  the  thought 
of  God,  a  judgment,  and  an  eternity  dazed 
me.  I  was  afraid.  I  put  the  weight  back,  and 
thought:  "Well,  I  guess  I'll  have  to  do  the  best 
I  can,  but  it's  hard!" 


[189] 


Chapter  XIV.     Bad  Deeds  in  a 
Union  for  Good  Works 


Chapter  XIV.     Bad  Deeds  in  a 
Union  for  Good  Works 

l^FTER   he   had   been    away   from   home 

/  jk  two  weeks,  uncle  sent  us  a  letter 

I      %       from  a  Rhode  Island  mill-town,  in- 

jf  j^     forming  us  that  he  had  the  malaria, 

bad.     Would  one  of  us  come  and 

bring  him  home?     There  was  a  postscript  which 

read:  "Be  sure  and  come  for  me  either  on  a 

Monday,  Wednesday,  or  a  Friday.     They  are 

the  alternate  days  when  I  don't  have  the  shivers." 

The  day  he  came  home  he  and  aunt  patched 

up  peace  over  a  pailful  of  beer,  and  there  the 

matter  ended,  save  that  echoes  of  it  would  be 

heard  at  the  next  wrangle.    Uncle  took  his  place 

in  one  of  the  long  lines  of  unemployed  that  wait 

for  work  at  the  end  of  the  mill  alleys.     The 

expenses  of  the  household  were  dependent  upon 

the  four  dollars  and  a  half  I  was  earning  at  the 

time. 

Then  came  the  oppressive  hot  days  of  summer, 
with  their  drawn-out  days  with  sun  and  cheerful 

[193] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

huckleberry  fields  in  their  glory,  a  summer  day 
which  I  could  not  enjoy  because  I  was  shut  out 
from  it  by  the  mill  windows,  and  it  was  against 
the  rules  to  look  out  of  them.  Some  of  the 
fellows  left  their  work  in  the  summer,  and  loafed 
like  plutocrats,  having  the  whole  day  and  three 
meals  to  themselves.  But  if  I  had  loafed  I 
should  have  had  neither  money  nor  peace.  My 
aunt  would  have  made  a  loafing  day  so  miserable 
for  me  that  I  should  have  been  glad  to  be  away 
from  her  scolding.  Neither  would  she  have  fed 
me,  and,  all  in  all,  I  should  have  been  the  loser. 

But  the  evenings  were  long  and  cool  after 
the  mill  closed  for  the  night.  From  half-past 
six  to  ten  offered  me  many  enticements,  chief 
among  which  was  the  privilege  of  roaming  the 
streets  with  the  Point  Roaders,  a  gang  of  mill 
boys,  into  which  I  was  admitted  after  I  had 
kicked  the  shins  of  "Yellow  Belly,"  the  leader. 
I  was  naturally  drawn  to  make  friends  with 
Jakey  McCarty,  a  merry  fellow  of  deep  designs, 
who  would  put  a  string  around  my  neck  while 
pretending  to  plan  a  walk  somewhere,  or  have 
his  finger  in  my  pocket,  poking  for  cigarette 
money,  while  talking  about  the  peggy  game  he 
had  last  played. 

In  the  winter  we  had  a  very  lonesome  time  of 
it,  as  a  gang.  All  we  could  do  that  was  exciting 
included  standing  on  a  drug-store  corner,  where 

[194] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

we  splashed  the  icy  waters  of  a  drinking  trough 
in  one  another's  faces,  or  attended,  en  masse, 
an  indoor  bicycle  race  at  the  "Rink,"  then  in 
its  glory.  But  we  kept  very  close  to  the  drink- 
ing trough,  as  money  was  not  very  plentiful. 

I  grew  tired  of  mere  loafing,  and  I  finally  per- 
suaded Jakey  McCarty,  who  liked  reading,  to 
go  with  me  and  visit  the  public  library  at  least 
once  a  week,  when  we  secured  books,  and  while 
there  also  rooted  among  the  back  numbers  of 
illustrated  magazines  and  comic  papers  and  made 
a  night  of  it.  But  the  gang  resented  this  weekly 
excursion  and  separation,  and  various  members 
reproached  us  with  the  stigma,  "  Libree-struck ! " 
which,  I  always  supposed,  carried  with  it  the 
same  significance  as  "sun  struck,"  i.e.,  crazy  over 
books. 

In  the  following  spring,  though,  the  gang  put 
up  a  parallel  bar  in  an  empty  lot,  and  spent 
the  early  evenings  in  athletic  diversions.  When 
darkness  came  on,  there  were  usually  Wild  West 
hold-ups,  Indian  dances,  and  cattle  round-ups, 
in  imitation  of  the  features  we  read  in  the  five- 
cent  novels  we  bought  and  exchanged  among 
ourselves.  Then,  with  the  putting  on  of  long 
trousers,  the  gang  became  more  active,  and 
roamed  at  night  over  a  broader  area  than  before. 
Two  of  the  gang  even  left  us  because  they  were 
"love-struck." 

[195] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

At  the  end  of  the  following  winter  the  cata- 
logue of  the  various  activities  of  the  gang  would 
read  like  a  chapter  from  the  Hunnish  Invasion. 
There  were  Saturday  night  excursions  up  to  the 
center  of  the  city,  which  led  us  through  Water 
street,  through  the  Jewish  and  the  Portuguese 
sections.  As  we  passed  by  a  grocery  store,  with 
tin  advertising  signs  projecting  from  its  doorway, 
we  would  line  up,  and  each  lad  would  leap  in  the 
air  and  snap  his  fist  against  the  sign,  producing 
a  loud  clatter  and  leaving  it  vibrating  at  great 
speed.  Before  the  clerks  had  appeared  on  the 
scene  we  had  passed  on,  and  mixed  with  the 
Saturday  night  throng  of  shoppers.  Our  next 
stop  was  before  a  Jewish  butcher  shop,  in  front 
of  which,  on  a  projecting  hook,  hung  a  cow's 
heart  and  liver.  Forming  another  line,  the 
gang  would  leap  again  and  catch  that  a  resound- 
ing slap  with  the  palm.  Then  one  of  the  fellows 
poked  his  head  in  the  shop  door,  and  called, 
"Say,  daddy,  we'll  give  yer  five  cents  if  you'll  let 
us  take  three  more  slaps!"  On  the  next  block, 
we  came  across  a  venerable  Israelite,  long-bearded 
and  somnolent,  watching  for  custom  before  his 
one-windowed  clothing  shop.  Jakey  leaped  for- 
ward, gave  a  vigorous  tug  on  the  venerable's 
beard,  and  we  broke  into  a  run,  with  a  shrieking, 
horrified  group  of  Jews  in  mad  pursuit. 

Our  objective  in  this  series  of  adventures  had 
[196] 


He  Plucked  the  Venerable  Beard  of  a  Somnolent  Hebrew 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

been  the  Union  for  Good  Works,  a  benevolent 
institution,  with  splendid  rooms,  to  which  we 
went  for  our  shower-bath;  cost,  five  cents! 

After  we  had  taken  our  baths,  and  while  we 
were  busy  with  nine-pins,  Jakey  stood  at  an 
opposite  end  of  the  room,  and  plastered  the 
frescoed  walls  of  the  Union  for  Good  Works  with 
the  pasty  contents  of  a  silver  package  of  cream 
cheese,  to  which  he  had  helped  himself  at  the 
stall  of  a  large  public  market.  That  same  night, 
when  we  arrived  at  the  South  End  and  were 
disbanding,  Jakey  set  on  view  before  our  aston- 
ished eyes  a  five-pound  pail  of  lard,  a  cap,  and 
several  plugs  of  tobacco,  which  he  carried  home 
and  presented  to  his  mother,  saying  that  he  had 
been  to  an  auction! 

Such  are  only  a  few  of  the  adventures  in  which 
we  indulged  after  a  depressing  day  of  it  in  the 
mill.  One  Fourth  of  July  night  we  roamed  over 
the  city,  through  the  aristocratic  section,  and 
in  a  wild,  fanatical,  mob-spirit,  entirely  without 
a  thought  as  to  the  criminal  lengths  of  our  ac- 
tion, leaped  over  low  fences,  went  through  gates 
and  ran  on  lawns,  tramping  down  flower-beds, 
crushing  down  shrubs,  and  snatching  out  of 
their  sockets  the  small  American  flags  with 
which  the  houses  were  decorated. 

The  only  religious  declaration  the  gang  made 
came  in  the  winter,  when,  on  dull  Sunday  after- 

[197] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

noons,  merely  for  the  walk  it  offered  and  the 
entertainments  to  which  it  gave  us  the  entree, 
we  joined  the  classes  in  the  Mission.  I  enjoyed 
sitting  near  the  aristocratic,  finely  dressed  young 
woman  who  instructed  me  as  to  the  mighty 
strength  of  Samson,  the  musical  and  shepherd- 
ing abilities  of  David,  the  martial  significance  of 
Joshua,  and  the  sterling  qualities  of  St.  Paul. 
Most  truly  was  my  interest  centered  in  the 
jeweled  rings  my  teacher  wore,  or  in  the  dainty 
scent  that  was  wafted  from  her  lace  handker- 
chief when  she  gave  one  of  those  cute  little 
feminine  coughs!  How  far  away,  after  all,  was 
she  from  a  knowledge  of  our  lives  and  the  con- 
ditions under  which  we  lived!  She  aimed  well, 
but  whatever  she  intended,  in  her  secret  heart, 
went  very,  very  wide  of  the  mark.  She  had  no 
moral  thrills  to  treat  us  to,  nor  did  she  ever 
couch  her  appeal  in  so  definite  a  way  as  to  dis- 
turb our  sins  one  bit.  Perhaps  she  did  not  think 
we  needed  such  strong  medicine.  Maybe  she 
classed  us  as  "Poor,  suffering  mill-boys!"  and 
let  that  suffice.  We  needed  someone  to  shake 
us  by  the  shoulders,  and  tell  us  that  we  were 
cowards,  afraid  to  make  men  of  ourselves.  We 
needed  a  strong,  manly  fellow,  just  then,  to  tell 
us,  in  plain  speech,  about  the  sins  we  were  fol- 
lowing. We  needed,  more  truly  than  all  else, 
a  man's  Man,  a  high,  convincing  Character,  a 

[198] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

Spiritual  Ideal,  The  Christ,  pointed  out  to  us. 
But  this  was  not  done,  and  we  left  the  Mission 
with  derision  in  our  hearts  for  things  we  ought 
to  have  respected.  Some  of  the  fellows  lighted 
their  cigarettes  with  the  Sunday-school  papers 
they  had  been  presented  with. 

Many  of  the  Monday  evenings  in  winter  were 
gala  nights,  when  we  marched  to  the  Armory 
and  watched  the  militia  drill.  On  our  return 
home,  we  walked  through  the  streets  with  sol- 
dierly precision,  wheeling,  halting,  presenting 
arms,  and  making  skilful  formations  when 
"Yellow  Belly"  ordered. 

In  September,  the  rules  were  posted  in  the 
mill  that  all  minors  who  could  not  read  and 
write  must  attend  public  evening  school,  unless 
prevented  by  physical  incapacity.  Four  of  us, 
"Yellow  Belly,"  Jakey,  Dutchy  Hermann,  and 
myself,  had  a  consultation,  and  decided  that  we 
would  take  advantage  of  the  evening  school  and 
improve  our  minds.  But  the  remainder  of  the 
gang,  with  no  other  intention  than  to  break  up 
the  school,  went  also,  and  though  there  was  a 
special  officer  on  guard,  and  a  masculine  principal 
walking  on  rubber  soles  through  the  halls  and 
opening  classroom  doors  unexpectedly,  they  had 
their  fling. 

An  evening  school  in  a  mill  city  is  a  splen- 
did commentary  on  ambition.     There  one  finds 

[199] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

ambition  at  its  best.  After  a  day's  work  of  ten 
and  a  half  hours,  tired,  tired,  tired  with  the  long 
day  of  heat  and  burden-bearing,  lungs  choking 
for  inhalations  of  fresh,  cool  air,  faces  flushed 
with  the  dry  heat  of  the  room,  ears  still  dulled 
by  the  roar  and  clank  of  machines,  brains  numbed 
by  hours  and  hours  of  routine  —  yet  there  they 
are,  men  grown,  some  of  them  with  moustaches, 
growing  lads  of  fifteen,  and  sixteen,  girls  and 
women,  all  of  many  nationalities,  spending  a 
couple  of  the  precious  hours  of  their  freedom 
scratching  on  papers,  counting,  musing  over  dry 
stuff,  all  because  they  want  to  atone  for  past 
intellectual  neglect.  I  was  there  because  I 
wanted  to  push  past  fractions  and  elementary 
history,  and  go  on  towards  the  higher  things.  I 
was  entirely  willing  to  forego  priceless  hours  for 
two  nights  a  week  to  get  more  of  a  knowledge  of 
the  rudiments  from  which  I  had  been  taken  by 
the  mill. 

I  had  a  seat  quite  back  in  the  room,  because 
I  had  intimations  that  some  of  the  gang  were 
going  to  "cut  up,"  and  that  a  back  seat  would 
put  me  out  of  the  danger  zone  of  shooting  peas, 
clay  bullets,  and  other  inventions.  The  man 
directly  in  front  of  me,  with  a  first  reader  in  his 
hand,  was  a  tall  Portuguese,  the  father  of  a 
family  of  children. 

As  soon  as  the  starting  gong  had  clanged 
[200] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

through  the  halls,  the  gang  began  its  operations. 
Dutchy,  in  spite  of  his  avowed  intention  of 
seriously  entering  the  school,  pretended  that  he 
could  not  recite  the  alphabet.  "Bunny,"  a 
young  Englishman,  tried  to  pass  himself  off  as 
a  Swede  and  ignorant  of  English  entirely. 
While  the  teachers  were  busy  with  the  details 
of  organization,  the  air  was  filled  with  riot,  the 
special  policeman  was  called  in,  and  I  along  with 
the  gang  was  threatened  with  arrest.  Notwith- 
standing that  such  careful  watch  was  maintained, 
the  two  weeks  of  night-school  that  I  attended 
were  filled  with  such  disturbances  that  I  grew 
discouraged  and  abandoned  the  project. 

Whenever  a  circus  or  a  fete,  like  the  semi- 
centennial of  the  city,  was  advertised,  the  gang 
always  planned  to  attend,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  the  mills  would  not  shut  down.  Six  of  us, 
in  one  room,  by  keeping  away  at  noon,  could 
cripple  the  mule-room  so  seriously  that  it  could 
not  run,  and  the  spinners  would  get  an  afternoon 
off.  Sometimes  a  group  of  spinners  would  hint 
to  us  to  stay  out  that  they  might  have  a  chance. 
That  was  my  first  experience  in  a  form  of  labor- 
unionism. 

Some  of  the  men  we  worked  under  in  the  mill 
had  a  club-room,  where  they  played  table  games, 
drank  beer  when  the  saloons  were  legally  closed, 
and   had  Saturday  night   smokers,  which   my 

[201] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

uncle  attended,  and  where  he  was  generally 
called  upon  to  "vamp"  on  the  piano. 

The  gang  used  to  haunt  this  club,  and,  when 
there  was  a  concert  on,  would  climb  up  and  look 
in  the  windows.  Finally  we  decided  that  we 
ought  to  have  a  club-room  of  our  own.  We 
sought  out  and  rented  a  shanty  which  had 
served  as  a  tiny  shop,  we  pasted  pictures  of 
actresses,  prize  fighters,  and  bicycle  champions 
around  the  walls,  had  a  small  card  table  covered 
with  magazines  and  newspapers,  and  initiated 
ourselves  into  the  "club." 

The  evenings  of  the  first  week  we  occupied, 
mainly,  in  sitting  in  front  of  the  club,  tilted  back 
in  chairs,  and  shouting  to  other  mill  lads,  as  they 
passed,  in  reply  to  their  cynical  salutations  of 
"Gee,  what  style!"  or,  "Aw,  blow  off!"  with 
a  swaggering,  "Ah,  there,  Jimmy.  Come  in 
and  have  a  game!"  Each  member  of  the  club 
kept  from  work  a  day,  the  better  to  taste  the 
joys  of  club  life  to  the  full.  About  the  fourth 
week,  after  we  had  held  forth  in  a  tempestuous 
whirl  of  boxing  bouts,  card  matches,  smoking 
bouts,  and  sensational  novel-reading,  the  land- 
lord repented  of  his  bargain,  locked  us  out,  and 
declared  to  our  remonstrance  committee  that 
he  could  no  longer  rent  us  the  shanty,  because  we 
had  become  a  "set  of  meddlin'  ne'er-do-wells!" 

So  we  went  back  to  the  drug-store  corner, 
[202] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

with  its  drinking  trough,  where  we  could  have 
been  found  huddled,  miserable,  like  animals 
who  have  so  much  liberty  and  do  not  know  how 
intelligently  to  use  it.  For  we  knew  that  after 
the  night,  came  the  morning,  and  with  the  morn- 
ing another  round  in  the  mill,  a  fight  with  a 
machine,  a  ten  hours'  dwelling  in  heated,  spice- 
less,  unexciting  monotony,  and  a  thought  like 
that  made  us  want  to  linger  as  long  as  we  dared 
on  that  drug-store  corner. 


[203] 


Chapter  XV.    The  College  Grad- 
uate Scrubber  Refreshes 
my  Ambitions 


Chapter  XV.  The  College 
Graduate  Scrubber  Refreshes  my 
Ambitions 

AT  sixteen  years  of  age,  after  three  years 
/  %         in    a  mill-room,   and  with  the   un- 
/ %       social  atmosphere  of  my  home  to 
J_  j^    discourage  me,  I  had  grown  to  dis- 

count that  old  ambition  of  mine, 
to  "make  something  of  myself."  My  body  had 
been  beaten  into  a  terrifying  weakness  and  lassi- 
tude by  the  rigors  of  the  mill.  My  esthetic 
sense  of  things  had  been  rudely,  violently  as- 
saulted by  profanity,  immorality,  and  vile  inde- 
cencies. I  had  come  to  that  fatalistic  belief, 
which  animates  so  many  in  the  mill,  that  the 
social  bars  are  set  up,  and  are  set  up  forever.  I 
should  always  have  to  be  in  the  mill.  I  should 
never  get  out  of  it! 

Recurrently  would  pop  up  the  old  thought  of 
self-destruction.  There  was  some  consolation 
in  it  too.  I  used  to  feel  as  if  a  great  weight 
rested  on  my  bent  back :  that  it  would  weigh  me 

[207] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

down,  as  Christian's  sin  had  weighed  him  down, 
only  mine  was  not  the  weight  of  sin,  but  the 
burden  of  social  injustice.  I  seemed  to  be  carry- 
ing the  burden  on  a  road  that  sloped  upward, 
higher  and  higher,  a  road  dark  and  haunted 
with  chilly  mists,  growing  darker,  covering  it. 
There  was  nothing  but  a  climbing,  a  struggling 
ahead,  nothing  to  walk  into  but  gloom!  What 
was  the  use  of  turning  a  finger  to  change  it?  I 
was  branded  from  the  first  for  the  mill.  You 
could  turn  back  my  scalp  and  find  that  my  brain 
was  a  mill.  You  could  turn  back  my  brain, 
and  find  that  my  thoughts  were  a  mill.  I  could 
never  get  out  —  away  from  the  far-reaching 
touch  of  it.  The  pleasantest  thing  I  enjoyed 
—  an  excursion  to  Cuttyhunk  on  a  steamer,  or 
a  holiday  at  the  ball  game  —  had  to  be  back- 
grounded against  the  mill.  After  everything, 
excursion,  holiday,  Sunday  rest,  a  night  of 
freedom  on  the  street,  an  enjoyable  illness  of  a 
day,  a  half  day's  shut-down  —  the  Mill!  The 
Mill! 

What  difference  did  it  make  that  I  took 
question-and-answer  grammar  to  the  mill,  and 
hid  myself  every  now  and  then,  to  get  it  in  my 
mind,  or  hurried  my  dinner  that  I  might  read 
it?  After  all,  the  mill,  the  toil,  and  the  weak- 
ness. What  difference  did  it  make  if  I  read 
good   books,   on   my   uncle's   recommendation? 

[208] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

After  I  had  gone  through  romance,  there  was 
the  muddy  prose  of  my  life  in  the  mill  and  at 
home ! 

Just  then  Fate,  who  served  me  so  ungenerously 
as  I  thought,  worked  one  more  mortal  into  her 
wheel,  brought  one  more  from  dreams  and  high 
purposes  into  the  ring  with  me.  He  was  a  stout, 
pudgy-faced,  lazy  man  of  thirty,  who  came  in 
to  mop  the  floor,  oil  some  of  the  pulleys,  and 
keep  some  of  the  spare  alleys  cleaned. 

But  he  was  a  college  graduate!  He  was  the 
first  college  graduate  I  had  ever  had  the  honor 
to  work  near.  The  overseers,  our  superintendent, 
were  not  graduates  of  a  college.  I  was  thrilled ! 
That  man,  working  at  the  end  of  my  alley, 
scrubbing  suds  into  the  floor  with  a  soggy  broom, 
mopping  them  dry,  pushing  his  pail  of  hot  water 
before  him,  carrying  a  shaft  pole  or  mopping 
along  with  a  pail  of  grease  in  his  hands  —  that 
man  was  a  COLLEGE  GRADUATE!  All  the 
dreams  that  I  had  indulged  relative  to  classic 
halls,  ivy-covered  walls,  the  college  fence,  a 
dormitory,  foot-ball  field  —  all  those  dreams  cen- 
tered around  that  lumpish  head,  for  the  Scrubber 
had  been  to  college!  He  represented  to  me  the 
unattainable,  the  Mount  Olympus  top  of  ambi- 
tious effort.  Suds,  pail,  soggy  mop,  grease  pail, 
and  lazy  fat  were  transformed  before  me,  for 
HE  HAD  BEEN  TO  COLLEGE! 

[209] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

What  college  had  he  graduated  from?  I  do 
not  know  to  this  day.  How  had  he  stood  in 
college?  Another  shrug  of  the  shoulders  must 
suffice.  WHY  was  HE  in  THE  MILL?  I 
never  paused  in  my  hero  adoration  to  ask  that. 
Sufficient  for  me  that  he  had  been  to  college! 

One  day  I  made  so  bold  as  to  address  this 
personage.  I  went  up  shyly  to  him,  one  day,  and 
said,  "Could  I  make  something  of  myself  if  I 
went  to  college?"  He  leaned  on  his  mop,  his 
light  brows  lifted,  his  cheeks  puffed  out  like  as 
if  a  frog  were  blowing  itself  up,  then  he  said  in 
a  thick,  dawdling  voice,  "You  could  either  come 
out  a  thick  head  or  a  genius.  It  depends!" 
Then  I  made  my  great  confession,  "I'd  like  to 
go  to  college  —  if  I  only  had  the  brains  —  and 
the  money,"  I  confided.  Then  he  seemed  to  be 
trying  to  swallow  his  tongue,  while  he  thought  of 
something  germane  to  the  conversation  in  hand. 

Then  he  replied,  "It  does  take  brains  to  get 
through  college!"  and  then  turned  to  his  work. 
I  was  not  to  be  put  off.  I  touched  his  overall 
brace,  and  asked,  "Do  you  think  that  I  might 
beg  my  way  into  college  some  day?  Of  course 
I  wouldn't  be  able  to  graduate  with  a  title,  like 
a  regular  student,  but  do  you  think  they'd  let 
me  study  there  and  try  to  make  something  of 
myself,  sir?  "  The  deference  in  my  address  must 
have   brought   him   to   attention   with   a   little 

[210] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

beyond  his  habitual  speed,  for  he  turned  to  me 
suddenly,  and  said,  "Of  course  they  will,  you 
crazy  kid!" 

I  left  him  then,  left  him  with  a  new  outlook 
into  the  future,  for  had  I  not  been  told  by  a 
REAL  college  graduate  that  I  could  get  to 
college!  Every  former  dream  hitherto  chained 
down  broke  loose  at  that,  and  I  felt  myself  with 
a  set  of  made-over  ambitions.  The  seal,  the 
signature,  had  been  placed  on  officially.  I  could 
do  it  if  I  tried.  I  could  get  out  of  the  mill; 
away  from  it.  I  could  get  an  education  that 
would  give  me  a  place  outside  it! 

After  that  I  began  to  fit  myself  for  college! 
It  was  a  fitting,  though,  of  a  poor  sort.  I  did 
not  know  how  to  go  about  it.  There  seemed  to 
be  none  in  my  circle  overeager  to  tell  me  how 
to  go  about  the  matter.  It  was  blind  leading 
all  the  way. 

I  thought,  first  of  all,  that  if  I  could  get  hold 
of  some  books  of  my  own,  my  very  own,  that 
would  be  the  first  step  toward  an  intellectual 
career.  I  had  read  the  lives  of  several  scholars, 
and  their  libraries  were  always  mentioned.  I 
thereupon  resolved  that  I  would  own  some  books 
of  my  own. 

The  next  stage  in  an  intellectual  career,  was 
the  reading  of  DRY  books.  I  resolved  that  the 
books  I  purchased  should  be  dry,  likewise. 

[211] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

So  after  that  I  found  real  diversion  in  visiting 
the  Salvation  Army  salvage  rooms,  where  they 
had  old  books  for  which  they  asked  five  and  ten 
cents  apiece.  The  rooms  were  so  laden  with  old 
clothes  and  all  sorts  of  salvage  that  I  had  to 
root  long  and  deep  often  to  bring  the  books  to 
light.  I  also  went  among  the  many  second- 
hand shops  and  made  the  same  sort  of  eager 
search. 

After  a  few  months  of  adventuring  I  had  my 
own  library  of  dry  books.  Their  dryness  will 
be  evident  from  the  check-list  which  follows. 

I  was  especially  delighted  with  my  discovery, 
among  a  lot  of  old  trousers  in  a  second-hand 
shop,  of  a  board-cover  copy  of  "Watts  on  the 
Mind."  Its  fine  print,  copious  foot-notes,  its 
mysterious  references,  as  "Seq.,"  "i.e.,"  "Aris. 
Book  IV.,  ff.,"  put  the  stamp  upon  it  as  being  a 
very  scholarly  book  indeed.  I  looked  it  through, 
and  not  finding  any  conversation  in  it,  judged 
that  it  was  not  too  light.  Its  analytical  chapter 
headings,  and  its  birthmark,  "182  — ,"  fully  per- 
suaded me  that  I  might  get  educated  from  that 
sort  of  a  book! 

In  the  salvage  rooms,  where  I  obtained  most 
of  my  treasures,  I  obtained  a  black,  cloth-bound 
book,  with  mottled  damp  pages  and  with  a 
mouldy  flavor  to  it,  entitled,  "Scriptural  Doc- 
trine," which  I  knew  was  a  dry  book,  because  it 

[212] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

was  a  religious  book  printed  in  the  40's.  It 
undertook  to  summarize  all  the  great  and  fear- 
some doctrines  from  the  Fall  to  the  Recovery 
by  massing  every  appropriate  passage  of  scrip- 
ture under  them,  and  concluding,  with  loyalty 
to  the  major  premises,  with  stout  assertions  that 
they  were  all  true  because  they  were.  I  also 
found,  in  the  same  place  and  on  the  same  day, 
a  well-worn,  pencil-marked,  dog-eared  copy  of 
"A  History  of  the  Ancient  World,"  filled  with 
quaint  wood-cuts  of  ruined  walls,  soldiers  in 
battle,  with  steel  spears  and  bare  feet.  It  was 
covered  with  a  crumpled  piece  of  paper  bag,  and 
there  were  only  two  leaves  missing  two  thirds 
of  the  way  in  the  book,  cutting  the  history  of 
the  Greeks  right  in  two.  I  knew  that  that  would 
be  a  scholar's  book  on  the  face  of  it.  Scholars 
always  read  about  old  nations  and  destroyed 
cities,  and  that  book  was  filled  with  such  records. 
I  was  pleased  with  it.  I  also  picked  up,  in  the 
salvage  rooms,  a  three- volume  edition  of  "The 
Cottage  Bible,"  two  volumes  of  which  were 
without  covers,  and  one  of  them  had  most  of 
the  leaves  stained  as  if  it  had  been  in  a  fire  some- 
where. It  was  an  edition  printed  somewhere 
near  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
I  bought  that,  first,  because  it  was  a  three- 
volume  edition  on  one  subject;  it  was  ponderous. 
Scholars  always  had  such  books.     I  also  bought 

[213] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

it  because  it  had  so  many  notes  in  it.  Half  of 
each  page  was  covered  with  them  in  fine  print. 
To  me,  that  was  the  highest  type  of  intellectual 
book. 

I  later  added  to  the  collection  —  a  thrilling 
find  —  a  well-bound  copy  of  a  civil  trial,  in 
Boston,  with  every  word  stenographically  re- 
corded, and  interesting  to  me  because  Paul 
Revere  was  one  of  the  witnesses,  the  ORIGI- 
NAL Paul  Revere  that  you  read  of  in  the  school 
books  and  see  advertised  on  coffee  and  cigars! 
I  wondered  how  such  a  valuable  work  had  ever 
passed  the  book  collectors  who  paid  thousands 
for  such  prizes !  I  bought  it  in  much  trembling, 
lest  the  second-hand  shopkeeper  should  be 
aware  of  the  book's  real  value  and  not  let  me 
have  it  for  ten  cents!  Perhaps  there  might  be 
an  old  document  hidden  in  its  yellow  leaves! 
It  was  with  such  high,  romantic  feelings  that 
I  made  the  purchase,  and  hurried  from  the  shop 
as  swiftly  as  I  could. 

The  book-buying,  once  established,  kept  with 
me  persistently,  and  crowded  out  for  a  time  the 
more  material  pleasures  of  pork  pies,  cream 
puffs,  and  hot  beef  teas.  I  turned  nearly  all 
my  spending  money  into  books.  One  Saturday 
afternoon,  for  the  first  time,  I  went  into  a  large 
city  bookstore  where  they  always  had  at  the 
door  a  barrel  of  whale-ship  wood  for  fireplaces. 

[  214  ] 


THROUGH  THE   MILL 

I  scouted  through  the  shop  for  bargains,  and 
besides  sundry  purchases  of  penny  reproductions 
of  famous  paintings,  I  secured  Sarah  K.  Bolton's 
"Poor  Boys  who  became  Famous,"  marked 
down  to  fifty  cents. 

My  next  purchases  at  the  bookstore  were 
a  manilla-covered  copy  of  Guizot's  "History  of 
France,"  "Life  of  Calvin,"  a  fifty -cent  copy  of 
the  Koran  which  I  purchased  because  it  was  an 
oriental  book  like  the  "Arabian  Nights,"  and  on 
account  of  the  thrilling  legends  and  superstitions 
with  which  Sale  has  filled  a  copious  Addenda. 
I  also  bought  a  fifteen-cent  copy  of  Spurgeon's 
"Plow  Talks,"  and  a  ten-cent  pamphlet  of 
"Anecdotes  for  Ministers,"  because  I  reasoned 
that  ministers  always  had  good  stories  in  their 
sermons — ergo,  why  not  get  a  source-book  for 
myself,  and  be  equal  with  the  ministers? 

Week  by  week  my  stock  of  books  grew,  each 
volume  probably  wondering  why  it  ever  became 
mixed  in  such  strange  company.  I  bought  no 
fiction,  now.  That  was  left  behind  with  dime 
novels  and  "Boy's  Books!"  I  was  aiming  for 
REAL  scholarship  now,  and  I  might  fit  myself 
for  college.  I  had  a  great  longing  now  to  align 
my  tastes  with  those  that  I  imagined  would  be 
the  tastes  of  real  scholars.  From  "Poor  Boys 
who  became  Famous"  I  learned  that  some  of 
the  heroes  therein  depicted  had  the  habit  of 

[215] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

reading  any  massive  work  they  laid  their  fingers 
on,  of  borrowing  GOOD  books,  almost  without 
regard  to  the  subject.  Good  reading  seemed  to 
be  the  standard,  and  to  that  standard  I  tried  to 
conform.  I  went  into  the  shop  of  an  English- 
man who  sold  things  at  auction,  and,  among  his 
shelves,  I  found  a  calfskin-bound  "Cruden's 
Concordance  of  the  Bible,"  which,  I  found  on 
examination,  contained  the  "Memoirs"  of  the 
author.  That  must  be  good  reading,  I  judged. 
Any  man  who  could  compile  such  a  mass  of 
references  must  be  dry  enough  to  be  a  scholar. 
So  I  paid  twenty -five  cents  for  the  book  immedi- 
ately. The  same  evening  I  also  secured  two  vol- 
umes of  Hume's  "History  of  England,"  printed, 
so  the  Roman  numerals  told  me,  after  I  had 
laboriously  sought  out  their  meaning,  before  the 
end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  with  the  long 
"  s  "  and  very  peculiar  type.  One  of  the  volumes 
had  a  cover  missing.  Though  the  history  did 
not  begin  until  the  later  kings,  I  had  the  satis- 
faction of  knowing  that  at  least  I  had  a  Good 
history  on  my  list. 

Of  a  technical  and  necessary  nature,  I  had  two 
well-worn,  and  very  old,  arithmetics  which  I 
bought  for  two  cents,  and  Binney's  "  Compend  of 
Theology,"  which  gave  a  simple  and  dogmatic 
summary  of  Protestant  doctrine  from  the  stand- 
point of  Methodism.     To  complete  my  scholarly 

[216] 


THROUGH  THE   MILL 

equipment,  I  knew  that  I  ought  to  keep  a  journal 
of  my  doings,  as  every  biography  that  I  read 
mentioned  one.  So  I  bought  a  small  pocket 
diary  for  that  year.     My  library  was  complete. 

In  my  reading  of  biography,  I  noted  that  a 
scholar  or  a  student  had  his  books  in  cases  and 
that  he  had  a  study.  I  resolved  to  display  my 
books  in  a  study,  likewise.  The  only  available 
place  in  the  house  was  a  large  front  room,  which 
my  aunt  kept  closed  because  there  was  no  furni- 
ture for  it.  The  floors  were  carpetless  and  lined 
with  tacks  left  by  the  last  occupant  in  tearing 
up  the  carpet.  The  wall-paper  was  dim  with 
dust,  and  the  windows  had  the  shutters  drawn 
because  there  were  no  curtains  for  them.  Dur- 
ing the  day  the  light  filtered  dismally  through 
the  blinds. 

I  asked  my  aunt  if  I  might  use  that  to  study 
in,  and  she  said  that  "it  wasn't  any  fret  of 
hers."  I  could.  So  I  placed  a  bedroom  chair,  and 
secured  a  small,  second-hand  writing-desk,  and 
placed  them  in  the  room.  I  used  the  white 
mantel-shelf  for  my  books.  I  placed  them 
lovingly  on  end,  and  according  to  color,  and  they 
seemed  magnificent  to  me  —  my  first  library ! 
I  would  stand  before  them,  in  proud  contempla- 
tion, and  whisper  to  myself,  "My  own  books!" 

I  have  read  that  in  the  midst  of  the  rough 
ocean  there  are  quiet,  calm  places  where  a  storm- 

[217] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

driven  ship  may  ride  at  peaceful  anchor.  That 
dingy  room,  with  its  pathetic  row  of  dingy, 
obsolete  books,  its  bedroom  chair  and  small 
desk,  with  the  accumulated  dust  on  the  bare 
floor,  was  such  a  place  for  me. 

My  first  duty  after  supper  was  to  insert  a 
comment  in  my  diary.  Many  times  I  would 
leave  the  table  with  aunt  and  uncle  in  violent 
controversy,  with  one  or  another  of  them  in- 
toxicated and  helpless,  and  the  line  would  be, 
in  significant  red  ink,  "Dark  To-day!"  It  was 
"Dark  To-day,"  and  "Dark  To-day"  for  weeks 
and  months.  There  were  few  occasions  to  ever 
write,  "Had  a  good  day,  to-day"  which,  being 
interpreted,  always  meant,  "Aunt  and  uncle  are 
not  drinking  now  and  are  living  together  without 
rows!"  For  I  always  condensed  my  diary  rec- 
ord, for  I  thought,  "It  might  be  read — some 
day.  Who  knows?  You'd  better  not  be  too 
definite!" 

I  ceased  to  go  out  at  night  now,  for  I  was 
determined  "to  make  something  of  myself," 
now  that  I  had  read  "Poor  Boys  who  became 
Famous."  What  they  had  done,  I  might  do. 
They  had  gone  through  hardships.  I  could  go 
through  mine,  if  only  I  was  not  so  weak  in  body. 

One  night  my  aunt  severely  arraigned  me 
for  something  I  had  not  said.  She  heaped  her 
significant  phrases  on  my  head,  taunted  me,  and 

[218] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

aroused  in  me  the  murderer's  passion.  I  immedi- 
ately ran  to  my  "study,"  closed  the  door,  and 
received  consolation  from  "Poor  Boys  who  be- 
came Famous"  by  finding  that  they  had  attained 
fame  through  patience.  I  resolved  to  bear  with 
fortitude  the  things  that  were  set  in  my  way. 

It  was  a  very  elaborate,  systematic,  and  com- 
mendable system  of  self-improvement  that  I 
laid  out  for  myself,  chiefly  at  the  suggestion  of 
a  writer  in  "Success  Magazine,"  which  I  was 
reading  with  avidity.  "A  few  minutes  a  day, 
on  a  street-car,  at  a  spare  moment,  indulged  in 
some  good  book,  have  been  sufficient  to  broadly 
train  many  men  who  otherwise  would  NEVER 
have  reached  the  pinnacle  of  fame,"  it  read,  and, 
acting  on  that  hint,  I  resolved  to  get  at  least  a 
few  minutes  a  day  with  my  own  great  books. 
I  would  not  be  narrow,  but  would  read  in  them 
all  every  evening!  I  would  read  law,  theology, 
history,  biography,  and  study  grammar  and 
arithmetic ! 

So  my  procedure  would  be  this:  After  my 
entry  in  the  diary,  I  would  read  a  page  from 
"The  Life  of  Calvin,"  then  one  of  the  romantic 
legends  from  the  appendix  to  the  Koran,  always, 
of  course,  after  I  had  dutifully  read  one  of  the 
chapters  on  "The  Ant,"  "Al  Hejr,"  "Thunder," 
"The  Troops,"  "The  Genii"  or  an  equally  excit- 
ing title  like  the  "Cleaving  Asunder,"  the  con- 

[219] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

text  of  which,  however,  was  generally  very  dull 
and  undramatic.  After  the  Koran  I  would  pass 
to  "The  History  of  The  Ancient  World"  and 
try  to  memorize  a  list  of  the  islands  of  the 
Grecian  group  before  the  power  of  Hellas 
waned.  By  this  time,  though,  I  was  usually 
unfit  to  proceed,  save  as  I  went  into  the 
kitchen  and  sprinkled  water  on  my  burning 
forehead;  dizzy  spells  and  weakness  of  the 
eyes  would  seize  hold  of  me,  and  I  would  have 
to  pause  in  utter  dejection  and  think  how  grand 
it  must  be  to  be  in  college  where  one  did  not 
have  to  work  ten  and  a  half  hours  in  a  vitiated 
atmosphere,  doing  hard  labor,  before  one  sat 
down  to  study.  Sometimes  I  would  say:  "No 
wonder  college  people  get  ahead  so  well — they 
have  the  chance.  What's  the  use  of  trying?" 
And  at  that  dangerous  moment  of  doubt,  "Poor 
Boys  who  became  Famous"  would  loom  so 
large  that  I  would  renew  my  ambitions,  and  sit 
down  once  more  to  finish  my  study. 

The  grammar  and  the  arithmetic  I  studied  in 
the  mill  during  any  minute  that  I  could  snatch 
from  my  work.  I  needed  help  on  those  subjects, 
and  I  could  ask  questions  of  the  College  Gradu- 
ate Scrubber.  Sometimes  I  would  vary  the 
order,  and  read  the  theological  definitions  from 
"  Cruden's  Concordance,"  or  the  scriptural  proofs 
of  great  doctrines  in  "The  Biblical  Theology," 

[220] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

with  a  page  or  two  from  the  law  trial  in  which 
"Paul  Revere"  had  a  part. 

Whenever  I  managed  to  get  in  a  good  night 
of  study  without  suffering  in  doing  it,  I  would 
try  to  astonish  the  College  Graduate  Scrubber 
with  a  parade  of  what  I  had  memorized.  I 
would  get  him  at  a  moment  when  he  was  espe- 
cially indulgent  with  his  time  and  say: 

"Did  you  ever  read  in  the  Koran  about  that 
legend  of  Abraham,  when  he  saw  the  stars  for 
the  first  time  and  thought  about  there  being 
one  God?"  And  the  Scrubber  would  look  at 
me  in  astonishment  and  confess,  "I  never  read 
that  book.  What  is  it?"  "Why,  didn't  you 
have  it  to  read  in  college?  "  I  would  ask  in  amaze. 
"It's  the  Turk's  Bible,  and  has  the  word  "God" 
in  it  the  most  times  you  ever  saw!" 

"They  don't  read  that  in  college,"  he  would 
answer.  One  day,  when  I  was  asking  him  to 
name  over  the  islands  of  Greece,  with  their 
ancient  names  —  to  memorize  which  I  had  been 
working  for  some  time  —  he  lifted  up  his  mop, 
made  a  dab  at  my  bare  legs,  and  stormed, 
"  Sonny,  you're  too  fresh.  Get  away  from  here." 
Seeing  that  he  did  not  seem  especially  sympa- 
thetic towards  my  ambitious  effort  to  be 
"learned,"  I  let  him  alone,  consoling  myself  with 
the  thought,  "Well,  how  can  you  expect  a  col- 
lege graduate  to  bother  with  you?     Mind  your 

[221] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

own  affairs,  and  some  day  you  might  get  to 
college." 

The  gang  noticed  my  defection  that  winter 
and  asked  me  what  was  wrong. 

"I'm  trying  to  educate  myself,"  I  said. 
"Yellow-Belly"  sniffed,  and  called  contemptu- 
ously: "Say,  fellows!  he's  got  the  book-bats, 
Priddy  has." 

"Well,"  I  contended,  "you  fellows  can  hang 
around  this  drug-store  corner  from  now  till 
doomsday,  if  you  want.  I  want  to  learn  enough 
to  get  out  of  the  mill.  Besides,  it's  none  of  your 
business  what  I  do,  anyway!"  and  with  that 
fling  I  had  to  run  off  to  escape  the  stones 
that  were  hurled  at  me. 


[222] 


Chapter  XVI.   How  the  Superin- 
tendent Shut  Us  out 
from  Eden 


Chapter  XVL    How  the  Superin- 
tendent Shut  us  Out  from  Eden 

THE  numerous  quarrels  in  which  my 
foster  parents  indulged,  and  during 
which  my  aunt  was  not  averse  to 
proclaiming  loudly  from  the  open 
windows  insulting  comments  on  her 
neighbors,  finally  brought  a  lawyer's  letter  to  the 
house  in  which  we  were  living,  summarily  ordering 
us  to  remove  ourselves  from  the  neighborhood. 
Aunt  flew  into  a  passion  when  the  letter  was 
read,  and  had  all  manner  of  sharp  criticism  for 
"neighbors  who  don't  tend  to  their  own  faults.'* 
Uncle  bowed  his  head  for  shame,  while  I  went 
to  my  study,  shut  the  door,  and  prayed  through 
tears  that  God  would,  in  some  way,  give  me  a 
good  home  like  many  another  boy,  and  that  He 
might  make  aunt  and  uncle  more  respectable. 

Under  the  shock  of  this  notice  my  uncle  gave 
up  his  work,  and  said  that  he  was  determined 
to  make  a  new  start  in  some  other  place. 

"I'm  going  to  see,  Millie,"  he  said,  "if  I  can't 
[225] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

get  somewhere  to  work,  in  God's  world,  where 
there  aren't  saloons  to  tempt  us.  I'll  send  for 
you  as  soon  as  I  find  a  place  like  that." 

Word  soon  came  from  him  telling  me  to  give 
up  my  work;  that  he  had  secured  a  place  in  a 
Connecticut  cotton-mill.  His  letter  also  stated 
that  we  should  live  in  a  quiet  little  village  where 
there  were  no  saloons  permitted  by  the  corpora- 
tion, and  that  our  home  would  be  in  a  little  brick 
cottage  with  a  flower  bed  and  lawn  inside  the 
front  gate! 

"What  a  god-send  this  will  prove,"  said  Aunt 
Millie,  "to  get  away  from  the  saloons.  Maybe 
Stanwood  '11  keep  sober  now.     Let  us  hope  so!" 

So  at  seventeen  years  of  age  I  went  with  my 
aunt  and  uncle  to  the  village,  a  strange,  quiet 
place  after  the  rumble  and  confusion  of  the  city. 
It  was  well  into  spring  when  we  arrived,  and 
we  found  the  village  beautiful  with  restful 
green  grass  and  the  fruit-tree  blossoms. 

As  soon  as  we  arrived  my  uncle  took  us  to 
the  corporation  boarding-house,  a  dismal  brick 
structure,  like  a  mill,  with  a  yellow  verandah  on 
its  face.  "We'll  have  to  put  up  here  till  the 
furniture  comes,"  announced  uncle. 

The  next  morning  I  took  my  overalls  with  me 
and  began  work  in  the  mule-room.  It  was  a 
pleasant  place  when  contrasted  with  the  places 
I  had  worked  in  in  the  city.     The  overseer  did 

[226] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

not  urge  us  on  so  strenuously.  There  was  not 
that  terrible  line  of  unemployed  in  the  alley 
every  morning,  waiting  to  take  our  places. 

I  was  given  a  place  with  my  uncle,  and,  when 
I  had  my  work  in  hand,  that  first  day,  he  would 
call  me  into  the  mule  alley  and  chat  with  me 
about  our  new  prospects. 

"We'll  begin  all  over,  Al,  and  see  if  we  can't 
do  better  by  you.  Maybe  we'll  be  able  to  send 
you  to  school,  if  we  can  get  some  money  laid  by. 
This  is  our  chance.  We're  away  from  drink. 
The  corporation  owns  the  village  and  won't  allow 
a  saloon  in  it.  Now  I  can  straighten  up  and  be 
a  man  at  last,  something  I've  shamefully  missed 
being  the  last  few  years,  lad!" 

Those  first  few  days  of  our  life  in  the  village, 
uncle's  face  seemed  to  lose  some  of  its  former 
sad  tenseness. 

"Wait  till  the  furniture  gets  here,  lad,"  he 
said,  repeatedly.  "Then  we'll  settle  down  to 
be  somebody,  as  we  used  to  be." 

Then  the  day  that  a  postal  came  from  the 
freight  office  saying  that  the  furniture  had 
arrived,  the  superintendent  of  the  mill  called  my 
uncle  away  from  his  mules  for  a  long  consulta- 
tion. Then  he  came  back  in  company  with  my 
uncle,  and  mentioned  to  me  that  he  would  like 
to  see  and  speak  with  me  in  the  elevator  room. 
I  had  only  time  to  note  that  uncle's  face  was  that 

[227] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

of  a  man  who  has  just  seen  a  tragedy.     It  was 
bloodless,  and  aged,  as  if  he  had  lost  hope. 

What  could  all  this  mean?  A  mill  superin- 
tendent did  not  usually  consult  with  his  hands 
except  on  very  grave  matters. 

I  found  the  superintendent  waiting  for  me, 
with  a  very  sober  face.  We  had  strict  privacy. 
When  he  had  shut  the  door,  he  said:  "Al  Priddy, 
I  want  to  ask  you  what  will  seem,  at  first,  a  very 
impertinent  and  delicate  question.  You  must 
give  me  a  frank  answer,  even  though  it  is  very 
hard." 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  said,  wondering  what  it  was  to  be. 

"Al,"  he  said,  sternly,  like  a  judge,  "is  your 
aunt  a  regular  drinker  —  of  intoxicants?" 

So  that  was  the  question!  I  gasped,  choked, 
and  with  my  eyes  on  the  floor,  confessed,  "She 
is,  sir." 

"Well,"  said  the  superintendent,  "I  am  very 
sorry  for  you,  my  boy!  I  am  sorry  that  you 
have  to  suffer  because  of  other  people.  We 
cannot  allow  women  who  drink  to  live  in  our 
houses.  We  will  not  allow  it  if  we  know  about  it." 

"  But  my  aunt  won't  drink  here,"  I  said.  "  She 
said  so,  and  there  aren't  any  saloons,  sir.  That 
is  the  reason  we  came  out  this  way!" 

"Your  aunt  has  been  seen  drunk  in  the  vil- 
lage already!"  announced  the  superintendent. 
"What  do  you  think  about  that?" 

[228] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

The  bottom  went  out  of  the  fairy  world  we 
had  hoped  to  live  in,  with  that  news.  I  could 
only  stand  there,  dazed,  shocked,  wild  with  the 
sense  of  our  loss. 

"You  cannot  have  the  house  I  promised," 
said  the  superintendent.  "I  have  told  your 
uncle  that.  The  furniture  is  not  unloaded  yet, 
and  it  must  return.  We  will  cover  the  expenses. 
We  cannot  permit  the  other  women  to  suffer 
because  of  your  aunt.  She  obtained  liquor  in 
some  way  and  I  shall  look  into  it.  You  must  go 
back.     You  cannot  have  any  of  our  rents." 

"But,  sir,"  I  pleaded,  "won't  you  give  us  a 
chance.  My  uncle  wants  to  do  well,  and  we 
will  try  and  see  that  my  aunt  keeps  straight  too. 
When  we  get  settled,  she'll  change.  It's  our 
only  chance.  If  we  go  back  to  the  city  it  will 
be  as  bad  as  before,  and  that  was  bad  enough. 
Give  us  one  more  chance!" 

"But  your  aunt  has  managed  to  get  drunk 
already,  after  having  been  in  town  only  a  few 
days.     What  will  it  be  later?" 

"Oh,  sir,"  I  went  on,  desperate  at  the  chance 
that  was  slipping  from  us,  "you  are  a  member 
of  the  church  and  believe  in  forgiving  as  Christ 
did.  Won't  you  give  us  a  chance  to  straighten 
out?  It  might  take  time,  but  it  means  so  much 
to  aunt  and  uncle  and  —  and  me!" 

"I  shall  have  to  refuse,"  said  the  superin- 
[229] 


THROUGH  THE   MILL 

tendent  finally.  "I  have  to  think  of  the  welfare 
of  more  families  than  one.  Go  back  to  your 
work  now,  and  talk  things  over  with  your  uncle. 
I  will  see  him  again." 

I  went  back  to  my  uncle  and  found  him  doing 
his  work  in  a  dreamy,  discouraged  way.  The 
miserable  hours  of  the  morning  wore  on,  and  by 
noon  there  was  no  change  in  the  unfortunate 
and  gloomy  situation  in  which  we  found  our- 
selves. 

When  we  had  had  dinner  at  the  boarding 
house,  uncle  went  to  his  room  and  informed 
Aunt  Millie  of  what  had  transpired.  Then  he 
upbraided  her,  scolded  her,  and  called  her  all 
manner  of  brutal  names,  because  he  was  crazed 
with  shame.  My  aunt  did  not  cry  out,  but 
merely  hurried  from  the  room  and  did  not  return 
while  we  were  there. 

In  the  afternoon  the  superintendent  came  and 
had  a  conference  with  uncle,  the  upshot  of  which 
was,  that  uncle  persuaded  him  to  allow  us  to 
retain  our  work  if  we  could  find  a  house  to  rent 
that  was  not  owned  by  the  corporation.  The 
overseer,  consulted,  said  that  there  was  a  tene- 
ment of  three  rooms  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village 
which  we  might  get,  and  with  this  prospect, 
uncle  and  I  found  the  tragedy  of  our  situation 
decreasing. 

"We'll  go  right  after  supper  and  look  up  that 
[230] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

place,"  agreed  Uncle  Stanwood.  "We  might 
be  lucky  enough  to  get  it,  Al." 

We  did  not  find  Aunt  Millie  at  the  boarding 
house  when  we  arrived,  so  we  ate  our  meal 
together,  wondering  where  she  could  be  and 
fretting  about  her.  But  after  supper  we  took 
an  electric  car  that  went  past  the  tenement  we 
were  thinking  of  examining.  The  car  was 
crowded  with  mill -workers  going  to  the  city  for 
the  evening.  Uncle  and  I  had  to  stand  on  the 
rear  platform. 

The  village  had  been  left,  and  the  car  was 
humming  along  a  level  stretch  of  state  highway 
bordered  with  cheerful  fields,  when  our  ears  were 
startled  by  screams,  and  when  uncle  and  I 
looked,  as  did  the  other  passengers,  we  beheld  a 
woman  wildly  fleeing  through  the  field  toward 
the  river.  She  was  screaming  and  waving  her 
hands  wildly  in  the  air. 

"My  God!"  shouted  uncle,  "it's  Millie!" 
He  shouted  to  the  conductor,  "Stop,  quick, 
I'll  look  after  her!"  and  when  the  car  slowed 
down  we  both  leaped  to  earth  and  ran,  a  race  of 
death,  after  the  crazed  woman. 

We  caught  her  almost  near  the  brink  of  the 
river,  and  found  it  difficult  to  keep  her  from  run- 
ning forward  to  hurl  herself  in  it.  She  was  bent 
on  suicide.  But  finally  we  calmed  her,  and  found 
that    she    had    been    drinking    whisky,    which 

[231] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

always  so  affected  her,  that  the  prospect  of 
having  to  return  to  the  city,  the  thought  of 
having  shamed  us,  had  made  her  determine  on 
suicide. 

She  did  up  her  hair,  straightened  her  clothes, 
and  we  three  went  further  down  the  road,  as 
far  as  the  house  we  were  seeking,  examined  the 
three  rooms,  and  were  fortunate  enough  to  rent 
them.  I  came  away  with  a  light  heart,  for  we 
would  not  have  to  leave  the  village  after  all. 


[232] 


Chapter  XV I L     I  Founded  the 
Priddy  Historical  Club 


Chapter  XVI L     I  Founded  the 
Priddy  Historical  Club 

ONE  of  the  important  items  we  had 
overlooked  in  securing  the  tene- 
ment at  the  border  of  the  village 
was  a  saloon  which  stood  next  door 
to  it!  A  saloon,  too,  that  was  the 
common  resort  of  the  village,  because  it  stood 
outside  the  town  lines!  "Never  mind,  lad," 
said  my  uncle,  "we'll  struggle  on  in  spite  of  it, 
you  see.  If  only  your  aunt  didn't  have  it  under 
her  nose  all  day!  It'll  be  hard  for  her!"  But 
there  it  was  and  matters  could  not  be  changed. 
The  first  few  weeks  passed  and  found  my  aunt 
and  uncle  solidly  entrenched  behind  strong 
temperance  resolutions. 

With  this -in  mind,  I  began  to  enjoy  my  new 
situation.  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  cloth 
designer,  a  young  Englishman  who  loved  books 
and  talked  familiarly  and  intelligently  about 
ambition.  He  stimulated  me  to  "make  some- 
thing of  myself,"  when  I  unfolded  my  ambition 
toward  that  goal.     We  had  long  walks  at  night 

[235] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

and  on  Sundays,  and  I  learned  for  the  first  time 
the  joys  of  sympathetic  friendship. 

I  became  a  regular  attendant  at  the  village 
church.  Indeed,  my  whole  life  seemed  washed 
of  its  grimy  contact  among  the  peace  and  sim- 
plicity of  village  life.  To  go  from  week  to  week 
and  not  see  cheapness  and  vulgarity  in  the  pro- 
fusion I  had  been  face  to  face  with  in  the  city, 
was  dream-like  and  delightful.  Now  I  seemed 
to  be  on  the  way  toward  the  finer  things  of  life. 

I  responded  to  my  opportunity  in  a  very 
definite  and  practical  way.  I  founded  an  histori- 
cal society!  In  my  reading,  I  had  picked  up 
during  a  holiday  in  the  city  a  history  of  the 
region,  a  history  whose  background  was  the 
romantic  one  of  Indian  lore  and  fascinating  to 
me.  I  spoke  enthusiastically  to  the  cloth  de- 
signer about  it;  he  and  I  secured  the  interest 
of  three  or  four  other  youths,  and  we  resolved 
thereupon  to  establish  an  historical  society, 
with  regular,  stated  meetings,  and  lectures,  real 
lectures ! 

The  work  in  the  mill  with  such  a  definite 
thing  in  mind  as  an  historical  society  became  less 
and  less  irksome.  For  the  first  time,  I  could 
master  my  duties  and  enjoy  pleasant  surround- 
ings. I  found  humane  conditions  for  the  first 
time,  and  was  better  in  mind  and  body  because 
of  them.     In  the  mill  we  talked  over  the  society, 

[236] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

and  resolved,  finally,  to  call  it  the  Priddy  Histor- 
ical Club.  It  was  formally  voted,  too,  that  I 
should  go  into  the  city,  seek  out  the  author  of 
the  ponderous  history  we  had  read,  and  ask 
him  if  he  would  not  come  out  and  lecture  to  us 
and  start  the  club. 

To  see  a  real,  live  author  and  talk  to  him! 
What  a  task  for  me!  How  I  was  growing  in 
the  finer  things.  If  only  the  College  Graduate 
Scrubber  could  know  that!  It  was  a  vast  task, 
loaded  with  honor,  and  truly  symbolical  of  my 
new  intellectual  attainments.  So  I  dressed  my- 
self in  my  best  clothes,  put  on  a  celluloid  collar, 
and  went  into  the  city. 

The  author  was  a  grey -bearded  man,  who  was 
also  librarian  of  the  city  library.  I  found  him 
in  his  private  office,  where  he  listened  graciously 
to  the  plans  of  the  Priddy  Historical  Club. 
He  consented  to  come  out  and  address  us,  and 
also  said  that  he  would  typewrite  a  course  of 
historical  research  for  our  use ! 

The  author  met  us,  one  evening,  in  a  room 
of  the  church.  He  told  us  fascinating  tales  of 
early  settlers,  and  left  in  our  possession  type- 
written sheets  filled  with  a  well-planned  and 
complete  course  of  study.  That  was  the  first 
and  only  meeting  of  the  club.  The  fellows  lost 
interest  at  the  formidableness  of  the  program, 
the  cloth  designer  had  too  much  work  to  bother 

[237] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

reading  on  so  large  a  scale,  and  I  —  I  had  other 
things  of  great  moment  to  bother  about. 

In  the  middle  of  summer,  a  farmer  across  the 
way  asked  me  to  work  for  him,  and  though 
the  wages  were  much  smaller  than  I  earned  in 
the  mill,  and  my  aunt  at  first  was  loath  to  have 
me  accept,  I  began  work  on  the  farm.  My  uncle 
was  greatly  pleased  with  this  arrangement. 

"Thank  God,  you  have  a  chance  to  get  some 
color  in  your  cheeks,"  he  said,  and  aunt  laughed. 
"It  would  be  a  good  sight  to  have  him  put  a  few 
pounds  of  flesh  on  his  bones,  wouldn't  it?" 

At  last  I  was  out  of  the  mill,  out  in  the  fresh 
air  all  day!  I  stretched  my  arms,  ran,  leaped, 
and  worked  with  great  delight.  I  felt  better, 
stronger,  more  inspired  than  ever  to  get  ahead. 
But  when  I  went  home,  after  the  day's  work, 
I  was  so  sleepy  through  exposure  that  I  could  no 
longer  study.  "Never  mind,"  I  thought;  "if  I 
only  get  a  strong  body  out  of  it,  it  will  be  all  right." 

So  I  milked  cows,  delivered  milk  to  a  village 
three  miles  distant,  and  worked  about  the  place, 
all  with  hearty  good  will.  Every  day  I  would 
look  in  a  glass  to  see  if  my  cheeks  were  puffing 
out  or  getting  ruddy. 

On  Sunday  I  attended  the  village  church  and 
worshiped  near  the  superintendent  of  the  mill. 
I  shared  the  farmer's  pew,  and  though  the  beat 
of  air  and  sun  on  my  eyes  made  me  very  sleepy 

[238] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

when  in  a  room,  and  though  the  minister  must 
have  wondered  why  I  winked  so  laboriously 
during  the  service,  as  I  tried  to  keep  awake,  I 
always  brought  to  mind  the  pleasant  places  into 
which  I  had  been  led,  and  joined  with  the  min- 
ister in  a  sincere  prayer  to  the  God  who  was 
leading  me. 

But  one  night  I  went  home,  and,  as  I  neared 
the  house,  I  heard  hysterical  screams  and  ran 
as  fast  as  I  could,  knowing  full  well  what  I 
should  see.  My  aunt  was  squirming  on  the 
floor,  her  hair  undone,  and  her  hat  entangled 
in  it.  She  had  on  her  best  dress.  Her  face  was 
convulsive  with  hate,  with  intense  insanity. 
She  was  shrieking:  "Oh,  he's  killing  me,  killing 
me!  Help!  Murder!"  I  ran  to  her,  caught 
the  sickening  odor  of  whisky  from  her  lips  and 
on  examination  found  that  there  was  a  gash  on 
her  cheek.  Then  I  stood  up  and  looked  around. 
Uncle,  breathing  heavily,  sat  at  the  other  end 
of  the  table,  before  an  untasted  supper.  His 
face  was  very  stern  and  troubled. 

"What  have  you  done? "  I  shouted.  "You've 
been  hitting  her,  you  coward!" 

"I  had  to  —  to  protect  myself,"  he  muttered. 
Then  he  showed  me  his  face.  The  blood  was 
dropping  down  when  he  took  his  handkerchief 
from  it,  and  there  was  a  gash  in  his  temple. 

"She  threw  a  saucer  square  at  me,"  he  ex- 
[  239  ] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

plained,  in  a  low  voice.  "She  had  a  table  knife, 
and  she's  stronger  than  I  am,  so  I  just  had  to 
smash  her  with  that,"  and  he  pointed  to  a  stick 
of  wood.  "It  saved  her  from  murder,  Al.  I'm 
going  away.  It  will  maybe  bring  her  round. 
If  I  stayed,  she'd  raise  all  sorts  of  rows  and  maybe 
get  me  to  drinking  again.  She's  been  out  to 
that  rum  shop.  I  found  her,  when  I  got  home, 
dressed  as  she  is,  trying  to  warm  a  can  of  soup 
in  the  frying-pan.  She  tried  to  say  she  hadn't 
been  drinking,  and  then  we  had  the  row,  lad. 
Get  her  to  bed,  if  you  can.  Get  her  out  of  the 
way,  because  when  she  sees  me  she's  sure  to 
begin  it  all  over.     I  can't  stop  here,  can  I?" 

"No,  get  away,"  I  said;  "we've  had  rows 
enough.  Send  us  some  money  when  you  get 
work,  and  it'll  be  all  right.  Come  and  see  us, 
if  you  get  a  good  place.  We  might  move  away 
from  here." 

He  packed  his  bundle,  and  went  to  the  city 
on  the  next  trolley-car,  and  left  me  alone  to 
fight  the  matter  through.  I  was  earning  four 
and  a  half  dollars  a  week,  and  knew  that  we 
would  have  to  fight  hard  if  uncle  did  not  send 
us  any  money.  After  I  had  placed  my  aunt  in 
bed  and  left  her  to  manage  as  best  she  could, 
knowing  that  her  sobs  would  die  down  and  a 
deep  sleep  ensue,  I  went  out  on  the  front  step 
and  sat  down  to  think  matters  over. 

[2401 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

"Now  everybody  in  the  village,  the  designer, 
and  all  your  fine  friends  will  know  that  your 
aunt  drinks,"  I  thought.  "What's  the  use  try- 
ing to  be  somebody  and  have  these  miserable 
things  in  the  way ! "  How  were  we  to  get  through 
the  winter?  It  seemed  inevitable  that  I  should 
have  to  go  back  to  the  mill.  The  mill  was  bound 
to  get  me,  in  the  long  run.  It  was  only  playing 
with  me  in  letting  me  out  in  the  sun,  the  fresh 
air,  and  the  fields  for  a  while.  The  mill  owned 
me.     I  would  have  to  go  back! 

We  tried  to  live  through  the  winter,  without 
getting  word  from  my  uncle,  on  the  money  I 
earned.  Occasionally  aunt  would  take  some 
liquor,  but  she  seemed  to  realize  at  last  that  she 
must  not  indulge  overmuch.  One  day,  growing 
desperate,  I  said  to  her,  "  If  I  catch  you  drinking 
on  my  money,  now,  I'll  leave  home,  you  see! 
I'll  earn  money  to  buy  food,  but  I  won't  earn 
it  for  no  saloon-keeper,  mark  my  words!"  I 
was  only  then  beginning  to  see  the  light  in  which 
my  own,  personal  rights  to  freedom  stood.  My 
aunt  scolded  me  for  awhile  at  such  unheard  of 
rebellion  and  such  masterly  impudence,  but  she 
took  notice  of  my  earnestness  and  knew  that  I 
would  keep  my  word. 

Finally  the  struggle  became  too  much  for  us. 
We  saw  that  we  could  not  starve  longer  on  the 
little  wage  I  was  earning,  so  we  made  plans  to 

[241] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

return  to  the  city  where  the  mills  were  plenty 
and  where  I  might  earn  more  money.  My  aunt 
was  only  too  eager  to  get  away  from  a  place  where 
it  was  impossible  to  hide  one's  actions. 

A  card  came  from  my  uncle  announcing  that 
he  had  returned  to  New  Bedford  already,  and 
asking  us  to  come  and  join  him. 

"Yes,"  smiled  my  aunt,  "I'll  bet  he's  thinking 
of  his  stomach.  He  finds,  when  he's  away,  that 
it  isn't  every  lodging-house  keeper  that  can  cook 
potato  pies  and  things  as  tasty  as  his  own  wife. 
That's  what  he's  homesick  for,  I'll  bet.  Write 
him  that  we'll  be  on  hand.  He  means  all  right, 
but  I'll  guarantee  he's  half  starved." 

I  eagerly  accepted  the  privilege  of  running 
ahead  to  New  Bedford  to  rent  a  tenement.  I 
said  to  myself,  "Yes,  and  I'll  get  one  so  far  away 
from  saloons  that  the  temptation  will  not  be 
under  their  noses,  anyway!" 

That  was  almost  an  impossible  thing.  The 
rents  were  excessively  high  in  such  paradises. 
I  had  to  compromise  by  renting  a  downstairs 
house  on  what  seemed  to  be  a  respectable  street. 
The  nearest  saloon  was  five  blocks  away. 


[242] 


Chapter  XVI II.      A  Venture 
into  Art 


Chapter  XVIII.     A  Venture 
into  Art 

ONCE  more  we  took  up  life  in  New 
Bedford,  with  the  thunder  of  many 
mills  in  our  ears,  and  the  short 
year's  sojourn  in  the  Connecticut 
village  so  dim  a  memory  that  it 
was  almost  out  of  mind  immediately  under 
the  press  of  sterner,  more  disquieting  things. 

All  the  foulness  of  life  seemed  to  be  raked  up 
at  my  feet  since  I  had  been  in  finer,  sweeter 
air.  I  went  back  for  a  few  nights  to  the  Point 
Road  Gang.  It  was  composed  of  the  same 
fellows  save  that  a  few  of  them  had  gone  away 
from  home,  one  to  prison  for  larceny,  another  to 
an  insane  asylum  through  excessive  cigarette 
indulgence,  and  those  who  were  left  had  obtained 
some  very  wise  notions  from  life. 

Jakey  was  one  of  those  who  had  gone  away 
from  home.  One  night  he  joined  his  old  com- 
rades. "Now,  fellows,  he  said,  with  somewhat 
of  a  swagger,  "what's  the  matter  with  being 
sports,  eh?"  "We  are  sporty,"  announced 
Bunny. 

[245] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

"Ah,  git  off  the  earth,  you!"  derided  Jakey. 
"Where's  the  booze?" 

"Uh,  we  ain't  skeered  of  that!"  retorted 
Bunny,  "are  we,  fellows?" 

To  show  that  they  were  not  afraid  of  a  drink, 
some  of  the  gang  fished  up  some  pennies  from 
their  pockets  and  made  a  pot  of  fifteen  cents. 

"Get  a  can,  somebody,"  announced  Jakey. 
"I'll  get  the  growler  for  you,  with  foam  on  it 
too." 

A  large  pail  was  procured,  and  Jakey  carried 
it  into  one  of  the  saloons.  We  waited  for  his 
return,  a  huddled  group  standing  in  a  vacant 
lot  where  we  should  not  be  seen.  This  was 
to  be  the  gang's  first  official  venture  into  ine- 
briety. When  Jakey  returned  with  the  can,  it 
was  passed  around.  We  stood  in  a  circle,  the 
better  to  watch  one  another.  There  were  ten 
in  the  circle.  Only  three  of  us  did  not  take 
a  drink,  for  which  we  were  not  only  duly  laughed 
at,  but  Jakey  heaped  all  manner  of  filthy  abuse 
on  our  heads.     But  we  did  not  drink. 

The  gang,  under  the  worldly-wise  Jakey 's 
direction,  began,  also,  to  hold  "surprise  parties" 
for  the  girls  in  the  mill.  These  parties  were 
arranged  for  Saturday  nights.  They  were 
extremely  shady  functions,  being  mainly  an 
excuse  for  beer-drinking,  kitchen  dancing,  and 
general  wild  sport.     The  whole  affair  was  based 

[246] 


The  Gang  Began  to  Hold  "Surprise- Parties"  for  The  Girls 
in  the  Mill 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

on  a  birthday,  a  wedding,  an  engagement,  or  a 
christening.  About  twenty-five  picked  couples 
were  usually  invited. 

After  the  presentation  speech,  dancing  took 
place  on  the  boards  of  the  cellar.  Then  refresh- 
ments were  passed,  and  the  boys  and  girls 
freely  indulged.  By  midnight  the  party  usually 
attained  the  proportions  of  a  revel,  threaded 
with  obscenity,  vulgarity,  fights,  and  wild 
singing. 

The  gang  had  drawn  away  from  the  things 
I  cared  for.  I  had  now  to  live  my  own  life, 
get  my  own  amusements,  and  make  new  com- 
panionships. 

I  was  working  in  the  mule-room  again  and 
this  time  I  was  advanced  to  the  post  of  "doffer." 
I  had  to  strip  the  spindles  of  the  cops  of  yarn 
and  put  new  tubes  on  them  for  another  set  of 
cops.  But  this  work  involved  the  carrying  of 
boxes  of  yarn  on  my  shoulders,  the  lifting  of  a 
heavy  truck,  and  often  unusual  speed  to  keep 
the  mules  in  my  section  running.  The  farm 
work  did  not  appear  to  have  strengthened  me 
very  decidedly.  I  had  to  stagger  under  my 
loads  the  same  as  ever.  I  wondered  how  long 
I  should  last  at  that  sort  of  work,  for  if  I  could 
not  do  that  work  the  overseer  would  never  pro- 
mote me  to  a  spinner,  where  I  could  earn  a 
skilled   worker's   wage.     I   was   now   near   my 

[247] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

nineteenth  birthday,  and  I  had  to  be  thinking 
about  my  future.  I  wanted  to  do  a  man's 
work  now,  in  a  man's  way,  for  a  man's  wage. 
I  learned  with  alarm,  too,  that  I  was  getting 
past  the  age  when  young  men  enter  college,  and 
there  I  was,  without  even  a  common  school 
education!  Once  more  the  gloom  of  the  mill 
settled  down  on  me.  The  old  despair  gripped 
me. 

I  did  find  companionship  in  my  ambitions, 
now  that  I  had  left  the  gang.  Pat  Carroll,  an 
Irishman,  wanted  to  go  to  college  also.  He  was 
far  past  me  in  the  amount  of  schooling  he  had 
enjoyed,  for  by  patient  application  to  night 
school  in  the  winter,  he  had  entered  upon  High 
School  studies.  There  was  Harry  Lea,  an 
Englishman,  who  was  even  further  advanced 
than  was  Pat  Carroll.  Harry  liked  big  words, 
and  had  tongue-tiring  sentences  of  them,  which 
created  rare  fun  whenever  he  cared  to  sputter 
them  for  us.  Harry  had  a  very  original  mind, 
did  not  care  much  for  society,  and  lived  quite  a 
thoughtful  life. 

These  two  aided  me  with  knotty  problems 
in  arithmetic  and  grammar.  But  it  was  not 
often  that  I  had  time  to  spend  with  them  now 
that  my  work  was  more  strenuous  and  wearing 
than  before. 

Harry  was  attending  a  private  evening  school 
[248] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

and  invited  me  to  the  annual  graduation.  I 
asked  him  if  there  would  be  any  "style"  to  it, 
thereby  meaning  fancy  dress  and  well-educated, 
society  people. 

"Oh,"  said  Harry,  "there  will  be  men  in 
evening  dress,  swallow  tails,  you  know,  and 
some  women  who  talk  nice.  If  they  talk  to 
you,  just  talk  up  the  weather.  Society  people 
are  always  doing  that!" 

The  graduation  was  held  in  one  of  the  lecture 
halls  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  I  sat  in  my  place, 
watching  with  rapt  eyes  the  speakers,  the 
fluent  speakers  who  had  such  an  education! 
The  principal  was  a  college  man.  Him  I  watched 
with  veritable  worship.  He  had  reached  the 
goal  I  craved  so  eagerly,  so  vainly  to  reach.  I 
wondered  at  the  time  if  he  felt  bigger  than  other 
people  because  he  had  a  college  degree!  When 
the  program  neared  its  end,  a  young  man  was 
announced  to  read  an  essay,  the  principal  stating 
that  the  young  man  had  been  studying  English 
but  five  months,  and  saying  it  so  emphatically 
that  I  thought  the  reader  must  be  a  green 
Swede,  so  I  marvelled  greatly  when  the  fluent 
diction  sounded  on  my  ears,  for  I  did  not  hear 
a  single  sound  with  a  Swedish  accent  to  it! 

One  Monday  morning  there  was  a  notice  posted 
in  the  mill  to  the  effect  that  an  evening  school 
of  design  would  be  opened  in  the  Textile  School. 

[249] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

I  inquired  about  it,  and  found  that  I  could 
learn  all  sorts  of  artistic  designing  —  wall-paper, 
book,  and  cloth,  free  of  tuition.  "Here's  my 
chance,"  I  thought.  "I  can  learn  a  trade  that 
will  pay  well,  get  me  out  of  the  mill,  and  not 
be  too  much  of  a  tax  on  what  little  strength  the 
mill  has  left  me."  So  I  went  joyously  "up 
city,"  and  entered  the  splendid  building  used 
as  a  Textile  College.  I  enrolled  at  the  office  and 
was  assigned  to  a  classroom. 

I  went  to  my  task  joyfully  with  dreams  of 
future  success,  for  I  liked  drawing.  Had  I  not 
traced  newspaper  pictures  ever  since  I  was  a 
small  boy?  Were  not  the  white-painted  walls 
of  the  mills  I  had  worked  in  decorated  with 
cow-boys,  rustic  pictures,  and  Indian's  heads, 
drawn  by  my  pencil? 

Three  nights  a  week  I  walked  back  and  forth 
to  the  Textile  School,  tired,  but  ambitious  to 
make  the  most  of  my  great  opportunity.  Week 
by  week  I  went  through  various  lessons  until 
I  began  to  design  wall-papers  with  water-color 
and  to  make  book-cover  designs  on  which  I 
prided  myself,  and  on  which  my  teacher  compli- 
mented me. 

Then  my  eyes  began  to  weaken  under  the 
glare  of  the  lights,  and  the  long  strain  they  had 
been  under  during  the  day,  through  staring  at 
cotton  threads  and   the  fatigue  of   long  hours 

[250] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

under  the  mill  lights.  My  conventionalized 
leaves  and  flowers,  my  water-lily  book  designs, 
my  tracings  for  Scotch  plaids  —  all  grew  hazy, 
jumpy,  distorted,  and  my  brush  fell  from  a 
weary  clutch.  In  dismal  submission  I  had  to 
give  up  that  ambition.  The  mill  was  bound  to 
have  me.  What  was  the  use  of  fighting  against 
it? 

But  now  that  the  direction  had  been  indicated 
by  the  Textile  School,  I  thought  that  I  might 
learn  to  draw  in  my  spare  time,  and  outside 
regular  class  rooms,  for  just  then  a  Corre- 
spondence School  agent  came  to  me  and  offered 
me  instruction  in  that  line  at  a  very  reasonable 
rate.  I  enrolled  myself,  and  thought  that  with 
the  choice  of  my  hours  of  study  I  could  readily 
learn  the  art  of  designing.  But  a  few  evenings 
at  elementary  scribbling  and  a  few  dollars 
for  advance  lessons  took  away  my  courage. 
The  whole  thing  seemed  a  blind  leading.  I  cut 
off  the  lessons  and  gave  up  in  utter  despair. 

Then,  one  night,  as  I  was  on  my  way  from 
work,  I  was  met  near  our  house  by  a  young  lad 
who  ran  up  to  me,  stopped  abruptly,  almost 
poked  his  finger  in  my  eye  as  he  called, derisively: 
"Aw,  yer  aunt's  been  arrested  fer  being  drunk! 
She  was  lugged  off  in  a  hurry-up!  Aw,  yer 
aunt's  got  jugged!  Shame  on  yer!  shame  on 
yer! 

[251] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

I  ran  home  at  that,  incredulous,  but  found 
the  house  deserted.  Then  I  knew  that  it  was 
true.  I  lay  on  the  bed  and  cried  my  eyes  sore 
in  great  misery,  with  the  bottom  gone  out  of  the 
world. 

My  uncle  had  been  called  to  investigate  the 
matter.  He  came  home  and  said  that  nothing 
could  be  done  until  morning,  so  we  sat  up  to 
the  table  and  made  out  as  best  we  could  with 
a  supper. 

The  next  morning  I  went  to  uncle's  overseer 
with  a  note  to  the  effect  that  he  would  be 
unable  to  be  at  work  that  morning.  The  mill- 
boys,  who  had  passed  the  news  around,  met 
me  and  in  indelicate  haste  referred  to  my 
misfortune,  saying,  "Goin'  to  the  trial,  Prid- 
dy,"  and,  "What  did  yer  have  to  eat  last  night, 
Priddy  —  tripe  on  a  skewer?"  I  worked  apart 
that  day,  as  if  interdicted  from  decent  society. 
My  aunt's  shame  was  mine,  perhaps  in  a  greater 
measure. 

On  my  return  home  that  night  I  found  my 
foster  parents  awaiting  me  with  smiles  on  their 
faces. 

"Al, "  said  my  aunt,  in  tears,  "I  want  you  to 
forgive  me.  I've  turned  over  a  new  leaf.  Both 
of  us  have.  Uncle  and  I  have  been  to  the  city 
mission  and  have  taken  the  pledge.  The  judge 
wasn't  hard  on  me.     He  sent  us  there.     We've 

[252] 


THROUGH    THE  MILL 

put  you  to  shame  often  enough  and  are  sorry 
for  it.  You're  to  have  a  better  home,  and  we'll 
get  along  famously  after  this.  Maybe  it's  all 
been  for  the  best,  lad;  don't  cry."  And  from  the 
new,  inspiring  light  in  her  eyes  I  could  tell  that 
she  meant  every  word,  and  I  thanked  God  in 
my  heart  for  the  experience  that  had  made  such 
words  possible  —  strange  words  on  my  aunt's 
lips. 


[253 


Chapter  XIX.      A  Reduction  in 

Usages  ^   Cart-tail  Oratory,  a 

Big  Strike j  and  the  jfoys 

and  Sufferings  thereof 


Chapter  XIX.  A  Reduction  in 
TVages,  Cart-tail  Oratory,  a  big 
Strike,  and  the  Joys  and  Suffer- 
ings  thereof. 

IN  January  of  that  year  forty  thousand  mill 
operatives  went  on  strike.  I  belonged 
to  the  union  and  had  a  voice  in  the  prepa- 
rations for  the  strike.  The  manufacturers 
wanted  to  reduce  our  wages  ten  per  cent. 
Word  was  passed  around  the  mule-room  that 
there  was  to  be  a  stubborn  fight,  and  that 
every  union  member  ought  to  be  on  hand  at 
the  next  regular  meeting,  when  a  vote  was  to 
be  taken  which  would  be  our  answer  to  the 
officials. 

Our  union  headquarters  were  then  in  a  long, 
narrow  room  in  one  of  the  business  blocks, 
lighted  by  smoky  oil  lamps.  The  room  was 
crowded  when  the  meeting  was  called  to  order. 
The  men  were  allowed  to  declare  their  feelings  in 
speeches. 

[257] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

"Th'  miserly  manufacturers,"  growled  Hal 
Lin  wood,  a  bow-legged  Socialist,  "they  never 
knows  when  they  are  well  off,  they  dunno. 
Little  enough  we  gets  now,  and  worse  off  we'll 
be  if  they  slices  our  wages  at  the  rate  they  would 
go.  It  ain't  just,  and  never  will  be  just  till  we 
div—  " 

"Order!"  shouted  the  chairman.  "This  here 
isn't  no  Socialist  meeting.  What  the  man  said 
at  first  is  all  right,  though." 

"Hear!  hear!"  roared  the  crowd. 

Linwood  represented  the  prevailing  opinion, 
and  when  the  vote  was  taken  we  declared  in 
favor  of  a  strike  by  a  large  majority.  Messen- 
gers were  coming  in  from  the  other  meetings,  and 
we  saw  that  a  general  strike  would  be  effected. 

The  situation  was  serious,  though,  for  we 
were  in  the  heart  of  winter,  the  most  incon- 
venient time  for  a  strike. 

I  looked  forward  to  it  without  any  scruples, 
for  it  meant  a  chance  for  me  to  rest.  I  had 
been  given  no  vacations  either  in  winter  or 
summer,  and  I  felt  that  one  was  certainly  due  me. 

I  experienced  a  guilty  feeling  when  I  passed 
the  silent  mills  the  next  Monday  morning.  I 
felt  as  if  I  were  breaking  some  great,  authorita- 
tive law.  It  was  the  same  feeling  I  always 
experienced  when  I  stayed  away  from  work^ 
even  for  a  day.     I  always  avoided  passing  the 

[258] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

mill  for  fear  the  overseer  would  run  out  and 
drag  me  in  to  work. 

During  the  early  stages  of  the  strike  we  were 
constantly  in  our  strike  headquarters,  getting 
news  and  appointing  committees.  Collectors 
were  sent  out  to  other  cities  to  take  up  contri- 
butions. Mass-meetings  were  held  in  the  city 
hall,  and  we  were  addressed  by  Mr.  Gompers 
and  other  labor  leaders.  Even  in  the  public 
parks  incendiary  meetings  were  common,  and 
wild-eyed  orators  called  us  to  resistance  — 
from  the  tail  end  of  a  cart. 

The  position  of  collector  was  eagerly  sought, 
for  to  most  of  the  men  it  offered  a  higher  wage 
than  could  be  earned  in  the  mill.  It  also  meant 
travel,  dinners,  and  a  good  percentage  of  the 
collections.  When  I  told  my  uncle  that  a  man 
named  Chad  was  earning  more  money  as  a 
collector  than  he  could  earn  as  a  spinner,  I 
was  angrily  told  to  mind  my  own  business. 

In  fact,  the  conduct  of  the  strike,  as  I  looked 
on  it  from  behind  the  scenes,  was  simply  a 
political  enterprise.  Our  leader  kept  urging 
us  to  resist.  He  himself  was  not  working  in  the 
mill,  but  was  getting  his  money  from  our  dues. 
Several  of  our  meetings  were  no  more  than  drink- 
ing bouts.  The  strike  manager,  who  conducted 
our  part  in  it,  elected  his  closest  friends  to  impor- 
tant offices  which  offered  good  remuneration. 

[259] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

I  have  been  to  football  games  when  the  home 
team  knew  that  it  was  beaten  at  the  start,  and 
yet  the  captain  has  pounded  his  men  and  said: 
"Come  on,  boys,  we've  got  them  whipped." 
That  sort  of  artificial  courage  was  supplied  us  by 
our  leaders.  Perhaps  it  was  necessary;  for  the 
most  of  us  were  hungry,  our  clothes  were  worn, 
and  the  fire  at  home  had  to  be  kept  low.  The 
grocers  would  not  give  us  credit,  and  the  winter 
was  cold.  But  the  leaders  grinned  at  us, 
pounded  the  gavel  on  the  table,  and  shouted: 
"This  is  a  fight  for  right,  men.  We've  got  the 
right  end  of  the  stick.  Keep  together  and  we'll 
come  out  all  right!" 

At  one  of  the  meetings,  picketing  committees 
were  appointed,  with  specific  instructions  to  do 
all  in  their  power  to  prevent  "scabs"  from 
going  into  the  mills.  We  boys  were  invited  to 
special  meetings,  where  we  were  treated  to 
tobacco  by  the  men  and  lectured  on  the  ethics 
of  the  "scabbing  system." 

"Just  think,  lads,  here  are  those  that  would 
step  in  and  take  your  work.  Think  of  it!  That's 
just  what  they'd  do!  Take  the  bread  right 
out  of  your  mouths,  and  when  the  strike  is 
done,  you  wouldn't  have  no  work  at  all  to  go  to. 
It's  criminal,  and  you  mustn't  let  it  pass. 
Fight,  and  fight  hard.  A  'scab's'  not  human. 
Don't  be  afraid  to  fight  him  by  fair  means  or 

[260] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

foul.  And  then,  too,  the  manufacturers  have 
the  police  and  the  judges  and  the  governor  on 
their  side,  because  they  are  moneyed  men! 
They  will  try  to  drive  us  off  the  streets  so  that 
we  can't  show  how  strong  we  are.  Look  out 
for  the  'scabs'!" 

His  words  came  true,  in  part.  The  state 
police  were  called,  several  strikers  were  arrested, 
and  given  the  full  penalty  for  disorderly  conduct 
and  assault.  We  were  not  allowed  to  congregate 
on  the  street  corners.  The  police  followed  every 
crowd. 

These  precautions  intensified  the  anger  of 
the  strikers.  Strike  headquarters,  in  which  we 
could  meet  and  pass  the  day  in  social  ways,  were 
opened  in  vacant  stores.  Here  we  came  in  the 
morning  and  stayed  through  the  day,  playing 
cards,  checkers,  and  talking  over  the  strike. 

In  regard  to  newspapers,  there  was  a  prevail- 
ing opinion  among  us  that  the  Boston  Journal 
alone  favored  our  side,  so  we  bought  it  to 
the  exclusion  of  all  other  dailies.  Against  the 
Boston  Transcript  there  was  a  general  antip- 
athy. I  liked  to  read  it,  but  my  uncle  spoke 
against  it. 

"I  don't  want  anybody  under  my  roof  read- 
ing the  paper  that  is  owned  hand  and  foot  by 
our  enemies,"  he  argued,  and  I  saw  that  I  had 
given  him  great  offense. 

[261] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

The  Boston  papers  sent  their  official  photog- 
raphers to  take  our  pictures.  I  posed,  along 
with  several  of  my  friends,  before  our  head- 
quarters, and  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the 
picture  in  the  paper  under  some  such  caption 
as  "A  group  of  striking  back-boys." 

I  did  not  suffer  during  the  strike.  I  had  a 
splendid  time  of  it.  While  the  snow  was  on  the 
ground  I  obtained  a  position  as  a  sweeper  in 
one  of  the  theaters,  and  I  spent  nearly  every 
day  for  a  while  at  matinees  and  evening  per- 
formances. The  strike  went  on  into  the  early 
part  of  May,  and,  when  the  snow  had  gone, 
I  went  out  with  a  little  wagon  —  picked  coal 
and  gathered  junk.  Through  these  activities 
I  really  earned  more  spending  money  than  I 
ever  received  for  working  in  the  mill.  I  rather 
enjoyed  the  situation,  and  could  not  understand 
at  the  time  how  people  could  say  they  wanted  it 
to  end. 

Before  it  did  end,  the  state  police  withdrew, 
and  we  went  on  guard  once  more  at  the  mill 
gates  on  watch  for  "strike-breakers." 

We  boys  made  exciting  work  of  this,  encour- 
aged by  our  elders.  I  recall  one  little  man  and 
his  wife,  who  did  not  believe  in  unions  or 
strikes.  They  did  have  a  greed  for  money,  and 
they  had  plenty  of  it  invested  in  tenements. 
They  had  no  children  to  support.     They  were, 

[262] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

however,  among  the  first  to  try  to  break  the 
strike  in  our  mill.  Popular  antipathy  broke 
with  direful  menace  upon  their  heads.  Every 
night  a  horde  of  neighbors  —  men,  women, 
boys,  and  girls  —  escorted  them  home  from 
their  work,  and  followed  them  back  to  the 
mill  gates  every  morning.  The  women  among 
us  were  the  most  violent.  "Big  Emily,"  a 
brawny  woman,  once  brought  her  fist  down  on 
the  little  man's  head  with  this  malediction: 
"Curse  ye!  ye  robber  o'  hones'  men's  food! 
Curse  ye!  and  may  ye  come  to  want,  thief!" 
The  poor  man  had  to  take  the  insult,  for  the 
flicker  of  an  eye  meant  a  mobbing.  His  wife 
was  tripped  by  boys  and  mud  was  plastered 
on  her  face.  The  pettiest  and  the  meanest 
annoyances  were  devised  and  ruthlessly  carried 
into  effect,  while  the  strike-breaking  couple 
marched  with  the  set  of  their  faces  toward 
home. 

Even  the  walls  of  their  house  could  not 
protect  them  from  the  menace  of  the  mob. 
One  of  the  strikers  rented  the  lower  floor  of 
their  house,  and  one  night,  when  we  had  followed 
them  to  the  gate,  he  invited  us  into  the  base- 
ment, produced  an  accordion,  and  started  a 
merry  dance,  which  lasted  well  into  the  night. 

The  return  of  the  swallows  brought  an  end 
to  the  strike.     We  boys  resolved  to  vote  against 

[263] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

a  return,  for  the  May  days  promised  joyous  out- 
door life.  But  the  men  and  women  were 
broken  in  spirit  and  heavily  in  debt,  and  a 
return  was  voted.  We  had  fought  four  long 
months  and  lost. 


[264] 


Chapter  XX.     My  Steam  Cooker 
goes  wrong.      I  go  to  New- 
port for  Enlistment  on 
a  Training-ship 


Chapter  XX.  My  Steam  Cooker 
goes  wrong.  I  go  to  Newport  for 
Enlistment  on  a  Training-ship 

1  RETURNED  to  the  mill  with  the  feelings 
of  an  escaped  convict  who  has  been  re- 
turned to  his  cell  after  a  day  of  freedom. 
My  uncle  found  that  he  had  been  put  on 
the  black-list,  and  consequently  would  not 
be  able  to  obtain  work  in  any  mill  in  the  city. 
I  was  allowed  to  take  up  a  new  position  as 
"doffer."  This  meant  an  advance  in  wages,  but 
I  knew  that  I  was  not  physically  equal  to  it. 
There  was  nothing  for  me  to  do,  however,  but 
accept,  for  there  was  a  waiting  line  at  the  lower 
end  of  the  room  and  the  overseer  was  not  a 
man  who  offered  things  twice. 

The  mill  was  getting  more  and  more  beyond 
me.  It  had  taken  my  strength  and  I  was 
incapable  of  a  man's  work,  as  a  man's  work 

[267] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

went  in  the  mule-room.  I  resolved,  then,  to 
break  my  aunt's  domination,  leave  the  mill, 
and  earn  my  own  way  with  the  first  thing  that 
offered  itself  outside  the  mill. 

About  this  time  I  read  of  a  young  fellow  who 
earned  large  profits  by  selling  steam  cookers. 
I  wrote  to  the  firm,  borrowed  five  dollars,  and 
obtained  a  sample  and  a  territory.  This  cooker 
consisted  of  five  compartments  which  fitted 
in  each  other  like  a  nest  of  boxes.  The  sample 
was  on  such  a  small  scale  that  great  care  had  to 
be  exercised  in  a  demonstration  of  it.  I  prac- 
tised faithfully  on  it  for  a  few  evenings,  tried 
to  sell  one  to  my  aunt,  and  then  resolved  to 
take  a  day's  holiday  and  attempt  a  few  sales. 
One  cooker  would  yield  a  good  day's  pay.  I 
resolved  to  abide  by  instructions  and  persevere. 

So  I  started  out  one  afternoon,  full  of  hope, 
assured  that  the  cooker  would  sell  on  sight  and 
that  my  way  out  of  the  mill  had  come.  I  did 
not  then  think  that  personal  appearance  had 
everything  to  do  with  successful  salesmanship. 
I  did  not  stop  to  think  that  a  tall,  bony,  red- 
eyed  youth,  with  a  front  tooth  missing  and 
wearing  trousers  which  bagged  at  the  knees, 
whose  coat  sleeves  were  just  high  enough  to 
show  that  he  had  never  worn  a  pair  of  cuffs  in 
his  life  —  I  did  not  stop  to  think  that  he  would 
invite    laughter    and    ridicule    on    his    head.  I 

[268] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

faced  the  situation  seriously  and  earnestly,  and 
I  expected  the  same  consideration  from  the  world. 

I  walked  cheerfully  to  a  wealthy  portion  of 
the  town,  in  a  district  where  I  was  certain 
they  would  like  to  see  my  wonderful  steam 
cooker.  In  great,  gulping  patience  I  waited 
for  an  answer  to  my  ring  before  a  very  aristo- 
cratic house.  I  arranged  my  "patter"  and 
determined  that  everything  should  go  on 
smoothly  so  far  as  my  talent  was  concerned. 

The  lady  of  the  house  appeared  and  I  stated 
my  business.  She  did  not  invite  me  into  her 
house.  I  exposed  my  wonderful  machine,  pulled 
it  apart,  explained  how  she  could  cook  cabbages, 
puddings,  and  meats  at  one  and  the  same 
time.  I  expatiated  on  the  superiority  of  steam- 
cooked  foods,  and  implied  that  she  could  not 
intelligently  keep  house  and  maintain  a  reputa- 
tion as  a  cook  unless  she  used  the  steam  cooker. 
She  bore  my  "patter"  with  great  patience,  and 
must  have  smiled  at  my  cockney  dialect,  of 
which  I  was  blissfully  ignorant. 

I  had  reached  that  part  of  the  demonstration 
where  the  several  sections  had  to  be  fitted  into 
each  other,  and  had  put  the  first  two  sections  in 
place  and  told  what  foods  could  be  cooked  in 
them,  when  I  came  to  grief  at  the  third  section. 
It  stuck,  and  in  spite  of  the  beads  of  perspiration 
which  rolled  down  my  face  and  a  vain  attempt 

[269] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

to  keep  up  the  "patter,"  I  could  not  unfasten 
it  until  I  had  turned  the  wonderful  cooker 
upside  down,  a  proceeding  which  would  have 
emptied  the  beans  and  puddings  in  practical  use. 
The  woman  was  very  kindly,  and  she  dismissed 
me  with  cordial  words.  But  I  went  down 
those  steps  chagrined  and  fully  persuaded  that 
I  must  stay  in  the  mill. 

My  uncle  was  now  earning  his  living  by 
keeping  another  store.  He  and  my  aunt  were 
spending  the  profits  in  a  next-door  saloon.  My 
home  life  had  not  improved. 

Then  I  remembered  the  novels  I  had  read; 
some  of  them,  an  "Army  and  Navy  Series," 
had  treated  of  apprentice  life  in  the  navy.  I 
knew  that  Newport  was  the  recruiting  station, 
and  I  resolved  to  enlist  in  the  navy. 

When  I  proposed  the  matter  to  my  aunt,  she 
agreed  to  let  me  go.  The  following  morning 
I  obtained  a  day's  holiday  and  went  on  the 
electric  cars  to  the  noted  seaport  town. 

This  trip  abroad,  with  its  opportunities  to 
see  that  there  were  people  who  did  other  things 
besides  work  in  the  mill,  and  with  its  freedom 
and  sunshine,  made  me  more  desperate  than 
ever  to  leave  the  mill.  I  was  like  the  Pilgrim 
in  the  first  chapter  of  Bunyan's  allegory,  run- 
ning from  the  City  of  Destruction,  fingers  in 
ears,  calling  "Life,  Life!" 

[270] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

I  walked  around  Newport  cliffs  and  touched 
the  gateways  of  the  palaces  which  front  the 
famous  walk.  I  reveled  in  the  shimmer  of  the 
sea  and  the  fragrance  of  shrubs  and  flowers. 
This  was  life  and  the  world!  I  must  get  out  in 
it;  take  my  place  daily  in  it,  and  live  the  life  of 
a  Man.  God  made  the  sun  and  the  fragrant 
air;  he  made  the  flowers  and  created  health. 
That  was  due  me,  because  it  was  not  my  sin, 
but  that  of  my  elders,  which  had  shut  me  out 
of  it  through  my  boyhood.  These  were  some 
of  the  thoughts  uppermost  in  my  mind.  I 
walked  the  narrow  streets  and  broad  avenues  — 
places  which  I  had  read  of  and  had  never  hoped 
to  see.  If  I  had  to  return  to  the  mill,  I  could 
say  that  I  had  seen  so  much  of  the  outside 
world,  at  least! 

After  I  had  watched  the  departure  of  some 
torpedo-boats  in  the  direction  of  a  gray-fronted 
fort  across  the  bay,  I  hurried  in  the  direction 
of  the  naval  college  to  see  if  Uncle  Sam  would 
give  me  the  chance  to  leave  the  mill  which  others 
had  denied. 

I  passed  a  training-ship  with  its  housed 
deck.  I  walked  along  past  drill  grounds  and 
barracks  and  entered  a  quiet  office.  With  a 
beating  heart  I  announced  to  the  attendant 
that  I  had  come  to  offer  myself  for  enlistment 
in  the  training-school.  He  led  me  into  a  large, 
[271] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

dim  room  to  a  group  of  uniformed  officers. 
They  asked  me  a  few  questions,  tested  me  with 
bits  of  colored  wool,  and  then  I  was  commanded 
to  disrobe. 

The  remainder  of  the  examination  must  have 
been  exceedingly  perfunctory,  for  the  scales 
registered  only  one  hundred  and  eighteen  pounds 
and  I  stood  five  feet  eleven  inches  in  my  bare 
feet.  That  was  enough  to  exclude  me,  but  they 
went  on  with  the  tests,  examining  my  teeth  (the 
front  one  was  missing),  pounding  my  chest,  and 
testing  the  beat  of  my  heart.  No  comments 
were  made,  and  after  I  had  dressed  again  I  was 
sent  to  an  anteroom  and  told  to  wait  their 
decision. 

For  a  few  long  minutes  I  sat  in  the  silent  room 
wondering  what  would  be  the  decision.  I  was 
optimistic  enough  to  plan  what  I  would  do  if 
I  should  enter  the  navy.  I  should  —  here  the 
attendant  came,  offered  me  a  tiny  card,  and 
without  a  word  bowed  me  to  the  door.  I  knew 
then  that  I  had  been  refused.  I  walked  through 
the  yard  in  a  daze.  When  I  reached  the  city,  I 
took  heart  to  read  the  card  they  had  given  me. 
I  recall  that  it  read  thus  simply:  "REFUSED. 
Defective  teeth.  Cardia — "  Uncle  Sam  did 
not  want  to  give  me  a  chance! 


[272] 


Chapter  XXL      The  Ichabod  of 
Mule-rooms ,  some  Drastic  Mus- 
ings College  at  my  Finger-tips \, 
the  Mill  People  wait  to  let  me 
pass j  and  I  am  JVaved 
into  the  Jf^orld  by  a 
Blind  TVoman 


Chapter  XXL  The  Ichabod  of 
Mule-rooms,  some  Drastic  Mus- 
ing, College  at  my  Finger-tips,  the 
Mill  People  wait  to  let  me  pass, 
and  I  am  Waved  into  the  World 
by  a  Blind  Woman 

ON  my  return  from  Newport  I  went 
to  work  in  one  of  the  oldest  mills 
in  the  city.  The  "mules"  were  in 
a  gloomy  basement  —  a  crowded, 
dim,  and  very  dirty  place  to  work 
in.  It  was  the  Ichabod  of  mule-rooms,  with 
every  trace  of  glory  gone.  The  machinery  was 
obsolete  and  had  to  be  helped  along  with  monkey- 
wrenches,  new  parts,  and  constant,  nerve- 
wearing  watchfulness.  The  alleys  were  so 
narrow  that  the  back-boys  had  to  edge  in 
between  the  frames;  and  expanded  chest  often 
meant  a  destructive  rubbing  on  bobbins  and 
[275] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

a  breaking  of  threads.  It  always  seemed  to  me 
that  this  room  was  reserved  by  the  corporation 
to  work  off  its  veteran  spinners  and  its  unreliable 
ones,  its  veteran  machinery,  and  its  bad-tem- 
pered, ineffective  bosses.  This  mule-room  was 
the  byword  among  the  spinners  at  that  end  of 
the  city.  A  man  hung  his  head  when  he  had 
to  tell  another  that  he  was  working  in  it;  for 
it  generally  was  his  testimony  to  his  fellows  that 
he  was  in  the  last  ditch.  Spinners  graduated 
from  that  room  into  scrubbing  or  oiling. 

The  personnel  of  this  room  was  always  chang- 
ing; but  its  prevailing  character  remained  the 
same:  a  dull-eyed,  drunken  set  of  men,  a 
loafing,  vicious  set  of  young  fellows  who  worked 
a  week  and  loafed  three. 

I  chose  to  work  in  that  place  because  it  was 
my  first  opportunity  for  an  advance  from  doffing 
to  "joiner."  A  "joiner"  is  one  who  shares 
with  another  the  operation  of  a  pair  of  mules  — 
a  semi-spinner.  The  pay  is  divided,  and  the 
work  is  portioned  off  between  the  two.  I  had 
been  working  toward  this  position  for  six  years 
and  a  half,  and  now  it  had  come,  even  in  that 
miserable  room,  I  was  eager  to  see  how  I  should 
manage. 

But,  oh,  the  mockery  and  vanity  of  all 
efforts,  even  my  wild  ones,  to  master  one  of 
those  machines!     The  lurching,  halting,  snap- 

[276] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

ping  things  could  not  be  mastered  Threads 
snapped  faster  than  I  could  fasten  them.  One 
tie  and  two  breaks,  two  ties  and  three  breaks, 
along  the  row  of  glistening  spindles,  until  there 
were  so  many  broken  threads  that  I  had  to 
stop  the  mule  to  catch  up.  And  every  stop 
meant  the  stoppage  of  wages,  and  the  longer 
a  thread  stayed  broken,  the  less  I  was  earning; 
and  on  top  of  that,  the  bosses  swore  at  us  for 
stopping  at  all.  I  should  have  stopped  work 
then  and  there  —  it  would  have  been  the  sensible 
thing  to  do  —  but  I  was  no  loafer,  and  I  was 
trying  to  make  good  in  this  new  work  —  the  end 
of  a  long  desire.  The  other  "joiners"  and 
spinners  did  not  try  to  keep  at  it.  They  gave 
up  the  work  as  soon  as  they  discovered  how 
useless  it  was  to  try  to  make  a  decent  wage  from 
the  worn-out  machines.  Only  myself  and  a 
few  poor  men  who  were  there  because  they 
could  not  get  any  better  place  stayed  on  and 
fought  the  one-sided  fight.  Every  time  the 
machinery  broke  —  and  breaks  were  constant — 
the  machinist  grumbled,  and  took  his  own  time 
in  coming  with  his  wrenches. 

The  physical  and  mental  reaction  of  all  this 
upon  me  was  most  woeful.  My  muscles  grew 
numb  under  the  excessive  pressure  on  them,  so 
much  so  that  I  often  stood  still  when  the  threads 
were  snapping  about  me  and  looked  on  them  as 

[277] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

if  I  had  never  seen  a  broken  thread  before.  Or 
I  would  suddenly  stop  in  my  wild  dashes  this 
way  and  that  in  the  mending  of  threads  and 
look  dazedly  about,  feel  a  stifling  half-sob 
coming  to  my  throat,  and  my  lips  would  tremble 
under  the  misery  and  hopelessness  of  it  all. 
My  only  consolation,  and  very  poor,  too,  lay 
in  the  clock.  At  six  o'clock  it  would  all  end 
for  a  few  hours  at  least,  and  I  could  get  out  of 
it  all.  But  when  you  watch  the  clock  under 
those  circumstances,  an  hour  becomes  two,  and 
one  day  two  days.  So  the  labor  was,  after  all, 
a  wild  frenzy,  a  race  and  a  stab  and  a  sob  for 
ten  and  a  half  hours!  I  can  never  think  of  it 
as  anything  more. 

Some  of  my  work-fellows  in  that  room  were 
sent  to  jail  for  assault,  petty  thieving,  and 
drunkenness.  I  used  to  think  about  them,  in 
the  jail,  doing  light  work  under  healthy  condi- 
tions, even  though  they  were  paying  penalties 
for  lawlessness,  but  I,  who  had  done  no  crime, 
had  to  have  ten  hours  and  a  half  of  that  despair- 
ing contest  with  a  machine.  How  much  better 
to  be  sewing  overalls  or  making  brooms  in  a 
jail!  I  had  to  stay  in  the  house  at  night  in 
order  to  be  thoroughly  rested  for  the  next 
day's  work.     I  had  no  liberty. 

And,  added  to  all  this,  there  was  the  constant 
depressive    contact    with    unsympathetic    and 

[278] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

foul-mouthed  desecrators  of  ambition.  Those 
who  knew  me  in  that  room  were  aware  that  I 
was  trying  to  avoid  every  degenerative  and 
impure  act.  Some  of  them  passed  word  around 
also  that  I  was  attending  such  and  such  a 
church!  They  came  to  the  end  of  the  mule, 
when  the  boss  chanced  not  to  be  around,  and, 
in  a  huddled  group,  stood  at  my  elbows,  where 
I  had  work  to  do,  and  put  on  their  dirty  lips  the 
foulest  vocabulary  that  ever  stained  foul  air. 

Then  one  day  there  came  a  flash  which  clearly 
lighted  up  everything.  "Why  are  you  going 
through  this  wild,  unequal  labor  in  this  dull 
room  day  by  day!  Why?  Do  you  absolutely 
have  to  do  it?  Are  others  keeping  at  it,  as 
you?  Wiry,  why,  why?"  each  one  bigger  than 
its  fellow,  made  me  meet  every  fact  squarely. 
"To  what  end  all  this?" 

My  labor  was  helping  to  buy  beer  at  home! 
I  was  giving  up  all  my  wage  to  my  aunt,  and 
getting  back  a  little  spending  money.  I  had 
fifteen  cents  in  the  bank  at  the  time.  I  did  not 
have  to  overstrain  myself  as  I  was  doing.  I  had 
the  privilege  of  giving  up  my  work  at  any 
moment  I  chose.  I  was  no  slave  to  such 
conditions.  No  man  could  drive  me  to  such 
tasks.  Giving  up  the  work  only  meant  a 
scolding  from  my  aunt  and  a  little  going  about 
among  other  mills  to  find  another,  and  perhaps 

[279] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

better,  position.  This  was  a  new  thought  to 
me — that  I  could  leave  my  work  when  I  wanted; 
that  I  might  be  given  work  too  hard  for  me. 

Previously  I  had  worked  on  the  supposition 
that  whatever  was  given  me  ought  to  be  done  at 
all  costs;  that  the  mill  was  the  measure  of  a 
man,  and  not  man  the  measure  of  the  mill. 
I  had  always  looked  upon  my  work  as  a  test  of 
my  moral  capacity;  that  any  refusal  to  work, 
even  when  it  was  harder  than  I  could  bear,  was  a 
denial  of  my  moral  rights.  But  now  the  worm 
of  conscience  was  boring  through  me.  Why 
should  I,  at  twenty  years  of  age,  not  be  entitled 
to  what  I  earned,  to  spend  on  my  education, 
instead  of  its  being  spent  on  my  aunt's  appetite 
for  intoxicants? 

Then,  too,  why  should  I  have  to  work  with 
people  who  had  no  moral  or  mental  sympathy 
with  me?  Was  five  dollars  and  seventy-five 
cents,  my  pay  for  the  first  week  in  that  gloomy 
room,  worth  it?     Assuredly  not. 

But,  then,  what  could  I  do  outside  of  the 
mill?  I  had  done  nothing  else  but  work  in  the 
mill  and  spend  a  little  time  on  a  farm.  If  I  left 
the  mill  at  so  late  a  time,  left  all  the  technical 
knowledge  I  had  gathered  while  I  had  been 
going  through  it,  should  I  be  doing  the  best 
thing  for  my  future?  There  seemed  nothing 
in  the  future  from  the  mill,  for,  as  I  have  shown, 

[280] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

I  had  not  the  strength  to  cope  with  more  difficult 
tasks  than  those  that  then  faced  me.  Probably 
if  I  got  out  of  doors,  in  some  open-air  work,  I 
should  gain  strength  and  be  able  to  make 
progress  in  some  other  line  of  work.  But  I  had 
been  trying  for  that,  and  nothing  had  come. 
What  then? 

Then  the  greatest  light  of  all  came  —  flooded 
me.  Leave  the  mill  at  any  cost!  Stop  right 
where  I  was;  quibble  no  more,  offend  all,  risk 
all,  but  get  away  from  the  mill!  It  was  all  so 
simple  after  all!  Why  had  I  not  worked  it  out 
before?  Leave  home!  Have  all  I  earned  to 
save  for  my  education!  That  was  my  emancipa- 
tion proclamation,  and  I  started  to  follow  it. 

First  of  all,  I  went  to  the  overseer  in  that 
dingy  room  and  told  him  frankly  that  the  work 
he  had  given  me  to  do  was  too  hard  for  me. 
I  could  not  keep  it  up.  I  also  told  him  I  did 
not  care  to  leave  just  then,  but,  if  he  had  any 
easier  work  in  the  room  —  doffing,  for  instance 
—  I  should  like  to  continue.  He  did  not 
receive  this  declaration  with  any  expression  of 
reproach,  as  I  had  expected,  but  said  simply: 
"You  go  to  work  back-boying  on  those  first 
three  mules.  You'll  make  as  much  money  by 
it  as  at  anything  in  here." 

This  first  break  made,  how  easily  all  others 
followed,  as  if  they  had  been  waiting  around  all 

[281J 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

the  time!  It  was  just  at  this  time  that  I  met 
a  young  fellow  who  had  come  back  to  the  city 
to  spend  his  vacation  from  study  at  a  university 
in  the  Middle  West.  To  him  I  told  all  my 
thoughts  concerning  getting  away  from  the  mill. 
I  said:  "I  wonder  if  I  went  out  where  you  go 
to  college,  and  worked  at  something  for  a  time, 
just  to  be  away  from  mills,  whether  in  time 
I  might  not  have  money  enough  on  hand  to 
be  able  to  start  on  my  way  towards  an  educa- 
tion? 

"How  much  do  you  think  you  would  have 
to  save?"  he  asked,  smilingly. 

"Why  —  why,  hundreds  of  dollars,  isn't  it?" 

"Do  you  think  so,  Al?" 

"Why,  certainly." 

"And  how  long  would  you  work  to  save  up?" 

"Oh,"  I  replied,  "that  depends  upon  what  I 
get  to  do  and  how  much  I  could  put  by." 

"Suppose,  Al,  that  you  could  go  right  out 
and  start  right  in  with  school  at  the  university — 
it  has  a  preparatory  course  —  and  work  your 
way  along,  what  would  you  say?" 

"You  mean,  jump  right  in  now,  this  year?" 

He  nodded. 

"But  it's  all  I  can  do  to  board  and  clothe 
myself  by  working  hard  in  the  mill.  I  couldn't 
by  any  means  work  hard  enough  to  pay  for 
going  through  a  school." 

[282] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

"How  much  would  you  be  willing  to  —  oh, 
Al,  you're  all  wrong  about  the  cost.  I  tell  you, 
old  fellow,  you  can  get  through  a  year  at  my 
place  on  a  hundred  dollars:  board,  tuition — " 

"What's  that?" 

"Teaching  and  room  and  heat.  All  the  rest 
of  your  expenses  won't  amount  to  over  fifty 
dollars,  if  you're  careful." 

I  gazed  on  him,  open-mouthed,  for  I  thought 
he  was  laughing  at  me. 

"Say  —  you  aren't  kidding  me,  are  you? 
All  that  is  straight  —  about  being  so  —  so 
cheap?" 

"Why,  yes,  it's  all  true  enough.  I  think 
you  can  manage  it  too,  Al.  I'll  do  my  best  to 
speak  a  word  for  you.  Get  ready  to  go  in 
three  weeks,  no  matter  how  much  money  you 
have.  I  think  you'll  be  able  to  get  some 
outside  work  to  do  at  the  university,  to  work 
your  way  through  and  meet  expenses." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  sha'n't  be  sorry  even  if  I 
don't  get  a  chance  at  the  school  for  a  while, 
you  know.  If  I  could  only  get  something  to  do 
near  there,  my  chance  might  come  later.  I 
shouldn't  be  any  worse  off  than  I  am  here.  I 
can  earn  my  living  at  something,  don't  you 
think  so?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  do;  but  I  think  you  will  have 
a  chance  at  the  school  without  having  to  wait." 

[283] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

"Oh,  I  can  hardly  believe  that,"  I  exclaimed 
for  sheer  joy. 

"But  you  can  make  all  your  plans  for  it, 
just  the  same,"  said  my  friend  with  confidence. 

This  new  outlook  set  every  strong  emotion 
shouting  in  me.  The  world  was  not  dressed 
in  so  gray  a  garb  as  I  had  thought.  I  went 
home  and  told  my  aunt  about  my  new  plan. 
She  said: 

"You've  never  asked  me  if  you  could  go!" 

"Well,  no,"  I  said,  "I  haven't;  and  I  don't 
think  I  need  to.  I  mean  to  set  out  for  my- 
self, at  any  rate.  It's  about  time  now  that 
I  was  doing  something  for  myself,  don't  you 
think  so?" 

"I  think  you're  an  impudent  puppy,  that's 
what!"  indignantly  cried  my  aunt. 

I  told  Pat  and  Harry,  and  they  could  hardly 
believe  their  own  ears;  but  they  urged  me  to 
take  the  chance,  for  they  thought  it  was  a 
"chance." 

My  work  —  all  work  in  the  mill  —  had  sud- 
denly taken  on  a  temporary  aspect  now,  a 
means  to  a  great  end  and  not  an  end  in  itself. 
I  could  look  on  it  now  and  feel  that  I  had 
mastered  it  at  last.  The  throbbing,  jubilant 
shout  of  the  victor  was  on  my  lips  now.  I  saw 
past  those  lint-laden  rooms,  the  creaking,  whirl- 
ing pulleys,  and  the  clacking  belts;   past  them, 

[284] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

and  everything  that  the  mill  meant  to  me,  to 
a  very  pleasant  new  life  ahead;  one  whose 
ground  was  holy  and  on  which  it  was  the  privi- 
lege of  but  few  to  walk.  I  think  there  must 
have  been  a  complete  effacement  of  all  the  lines 
that  had  marked  my  face.  For  once,  I  felt 
sure  of  myself;  sure  that  all  the  lines  of  leading 
were  to  mass  into  one  sure  road  toward  a  better 
thing. 

My  mind  was  not  on  my  work  for  the  follow- 
ing three  weeks.  I  went  about  with  a  dream 
in  my  eyes.  I  know  I  whistled  much  and 
began  to  lose  all  respect  for  those  machines 
which  had  driven  me,  in  times  past,  like  a 
chained  slave.  I  even  found  myself  having 
much  pity  for  all  the  other  men  and  boys  in 
the  mill.  I  went  among  them  with  hesitation, 
as  if  I  had  a  secret  which,  if  told,  would  make 
them  feel  like  doing  what  I  was  about  to  do. 

I  had  found  out  from  a  ticket  agency  in  the 
city  that  my  fare  to  the  Middle  West  would 
cost  me  about  seventeen  dollars.  I  knew  that 
in  two  weeks,  with  the  week's  wage  that  the 
mill  always  kept  back  and  with  the  seven 
dollars  my  Uncle  Stanwood  had  promised  to 
let  me  have,  that  I  should  have  my  railway 
fare  and  incidental  expenses,  anyway.  So  there, 
in  the  ticket  agency,  I  had  the  clerk  take  me, 
with  his  pencil,  over  the  route  I  should  later 

[285] 


THROUGH  THE   MILL 

take  in  the  cars.  It  was  a  wonderful  itinerary. 
I  was  to  see  the  mountains  of  New  England, 
the  lakes  of  the  border,  and  to  plunge  into  a 
new  part  of  the  country !  It  would  take  me  three 
days.  How  I  stared  at  the  prospect  of  so  much 
traveling!  I  obtained  time-tables  with  maps 
containing  the  route  over  the  different  railways 
I  should  ride  on  during  that  journey  away  from 
the  mill.  Three  days  from  the  cotton  mills! 
That  was  a  thought  to  make  a  fellow  dance  all 
day  without  rest. 

One  day  I  lay  sprawled  out  at  full  length  in 
an  alley  behind  a  box,  so  that  the  overseer 
might  not  see  me,  when  Micky  Darrett  peeped 
over  my  shoulders  at  the  maps  I  had  spread 
out  on  which  I  had  traced  and  retraced  my 
great  journey  with  a  pencil. 

"What  yer'  doin',  Priddy?"  said  Micky. 
"Oh,"  I  announced  with  studied  nonchalance, 
"just  planning  out  the  road  I  shall  take  in  two 
weeks.     I'm  going  to  college,  you  know." 

"Oh,"  laughed  Micky,  "quit  yer  kiddin'  like 
that!     What  are  you  doin',  really?" 

"Just  what  I  said,  Micky.     I  mean  it." 

"Gee!"  gasped  the  little  Irishman;  "yer  a 
sporty  bluffer,  Priddy!" 

"But  'tis  true,  though,"  I  insisted. 

"What  yer  givin'?"  growled  Micky.  "It's 
only  swells  goes  ter  college." 

[286] 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

"That's  what  you  think,  Micky,  but  it's  God's 
truth  that  I  go  in  two  weeks  and  try  to  make  a 
start." 

"Gee!"  he  gasped;  "I  alius  thought  you 
was  poor.  You  must  have  got  a  lot  of  money 
saved,  all  right,  all  right!" 

"That's  where  you're  wrong,  Micky.  I  shall 
have  about  three  weeks'  wages  and  what  my 
uncle  gives  me  —  seven  dollars  —  if  he  gives 
it  to  me  at  all.     That's  all  I've  got  to  start  on." 

"You  don't  stuff  that  down  me,  Priddy!" 
cried  Micky,  in  great  disgust,  for  he  hated  to  be 
made  sport  of.     "You  can't  bluff  yer  uncle." 

But  nevertheless  he  published  all  over  the 
room  what  I  had  told  him,  and  thereafter  I 
answered  many  questions  about  myself  and  my 
plans,  and  had  to  spend  much  energy  in  rebut- 
ting the  prevalent  suspicion  that  I  was  "bluffing 
the  room." 

Then  came  my  last  Saturday  in  the  mill  — 
the  last  day  I  have  ever  spent  in  the  mill.  I  did 
my  work  with  a  great  conscience  that  day .  I  don't 
believe  the  second  hand  had  to  look  twice  to  see 
if  I  had  done  my  sweeping  well.  The  spinners 
had  become  very  friendly,  as  if  my  ambition 
had  won  respect  from  them,  and  even  the  over- 
seer came  to  me  just  before  I  left  the  room, 
took  me  by  the  hand,  and  said:  "I  wish  you 
the  very  best  of  luck,  Priddy.     Keep  to  it!" 

[287]  * 


THROUGH  THE  MILL 

On  Monday  morning,  at  six  o'clock,  I  sat  in 
the  train.  I  had  drawn  thirteen  dollars  from 
the  mill,  received  seven  dollars  from  my  uncle, 
said  good-by  to  my  old  friends,  and  paid  fifteen 
dollars  and  sixty-five  cents  for  a  ticket.  Aunt 
Millie,  in  tears,  had  kissed  me,  and  had  hoped 
that  "I'd  do  well,  very  well!"  Uncle  Stanwood 
had  carried  my  hand-bag  for  me  to  the  electric 
car  and  had  given  me  good  counsel  out  of  his 
full  heart.  Now  I  sat  listening  to  the  mill 
bells  and  whistles  giving  their  first  warning 
to  the  workers.  "You'll  never  call  for  me 
again,  I  hope!"  I  said  to  myself  as  I  listened. 
Then  the  train  started,  and  I  glued  my  face  to 
the  window-pane  to  catch  a  last  glimpse  of  the 
city  where  for  seven  years  I  had  been  trying  to 
get  ahead  of  machinery  and  had  failed.  The 
train  went  slowly  over  the  grade  crossings.  I 
saw  the  mill  crowds  at  every  street,  held  back 
by  the  gates,  waiting  deferentially  while  I, 
who  had  been  one  of  them  last  week,  was 
whirled  along  towards  an  education.  I  saw 
them  as  I  had  walked  with  them  —  women  in 
shawls  and  looking  always  tired,  men  in  rough 
clothes  and  with  dirty  clay  pipes  prodded  in 
their  mouths,  and  girls  in  working  aprons,  and 
boys,  just  as  I  had  been,  in  overalls  and  under- 
shirts. And  I  was  going  away  from  it  all,  in 
spite  of  everything! 

[288] 


THROUGH  THE   MILL 

One  of  my  friends  was  an  old  woman,  stone 
blind.  When  I  had  given  her  my  farewell,  she 
had  said:  "Al,  I'll  be  at  the  crossing  in  front 
of  my  house  when  the  train  goes  by  on  Monday 
morning.  Look  for  me.  I'll  wave  my  handker- 
chief when  the  train  passes,  lad,  and  you'll  know 
by  that  sign  that  I'm  sending  you  off  to  make 
something  of  yourself!" 

We  came  to  the  outskirts  of  the  city;  the 
mill  crowds  had  been  left,  and  at  last  a  lonely 
crossing  came,  the  one  for  which  I  had  been 
looking.  I  had  the  window  open.  The  train 
was  gathering  speed,  but  I  saw  the  black- 
garbed  blind  woman,  supported  by  her  daughter, 
standing  near  the  gates,  her  eyes  fixed  ahead, 
and  her  handkerchief  fluttering,  fluttering,  as 
we  plunged  into  the  country. 


[289] 


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